


No Time Cannot Erase You

by Edith_Edison



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: A little bit of Stydia, And of Sterek too, Angst, Chuck is dead, Eventual Happy Ending, Happy Ending, He comes back to Beacon Hills, I love him too much, M/M, Newt (Maze Runner) Lives, Newt isn't really dead, Sassy Minho, Stiles Stilinski is Thomas (Maze Runner), Swearing, Teresa Is Dead, There's no Safe Haven, Thomas remembers everything, maybe more than a bit, sad Thomas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7302628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edith_Edison/pseuds/Edith_Edison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no Safe Haven. No Flare. No scorching sun.<br/>It was just a fiction, an insane way to explore the human mind and teenagers' behavior, an illegal experiment.<br/>Nothing was real.<br/>Or, at least, not all of it.<br/>The people they had lost were really dead. Every injury, both physical and psychological, was real. Every bond, every feeling experienced remained real.</p><p>After arguing with Minho and breaking-up with Brenda, Thomas decided to come back home.<br/>Here he had to deal with the image of Stiles, the guy who he was, the hyperactive and sarcastic boy everyone used to know. But he's changed. He's gone through so much that he's a different person now.<br/>And his old friends had to just come up with that. </p><p>When a new killer appeared to Beacon Hills, Thomas thought he was only a supernatural psycho that wanted to take them all down. He never thought that he would lead him to someone else.<br/>To him. To the person he shot to with his own hands.</p><p>To Newt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A different person

Thomas put his car in front of the garage door and got out of the vehicle, not before he closed his eyes and told himself a few words of encouragement.  
He was back. He was back  _home,_  in Beacon Hills, in the city where he grew up.  
It seemed so strange to breathe again that air, so much that he felt like a stranger in a very familiar place.

He knocked on the door of his own house, but to welcome him was not his father; Melissa's face was crossed in a few seconds by a varying shade of feelings: confusion, agitation, happiness, emotion.  
Then he was tight in her arms, in a gesture that had something maternal, that made his heart _tremble_  - something that did not happen for quite some time now.

“I can’t believe it!” She murmured in a broken voice from crying. “Scott! John!”

The two men rushed alarmed by the woman, who pulled away from the boy. 

“Oh my God-” His best friend only whispered, almost incredulous of the figure that was before his eyes.

His father said nothing; with eyes full of tears, he approached him and hugged him trying to make him feel all the concern, every bit of pain that the absence of his son had given him.  
Thomas let a few tears escape his self-control.

“Stiles...where have you been, son?” His father asked, watching him in the eye, his hands on both of his shoulders.

How long has it been since anyone called him  _‘Stiles’?_  And why did that nickname seem so  _wrong_  now? 

“It’s a long story.” The brunet said with a hoarse voice; regain part of his old life had shaken him a lot.

“Are you hurt?” The man continued, while his eyes examined every inches of the boy’s body, looking for a bruise, blood, any tangible evidence that he was suffering.

“No.”

_‘Yes! Yes! I’m bleeding, how can’t you see it, dad? I’m bleeding out.’_  He wanted to say, instead.

The Sheriff affectionately smiled at him and then gave him a finals squeeze, before let him and his best friend some space; Scott practically threw himself on him without a second thought. 

“I’m so happy you’re okay, buddy.” Scott sighed in relief. “Come in.”

 

And so he did. 

 

*** *** ***

 

“Slim it, Thomas.” Brenda hissed, lapidary. “I know what you’re thinking. That you would’ve let them do it. Take your brain just like that, because it would’ve been useful. But it wouldn’t.”

“You can’t know that.” He had the strength to argue, clutching his free hand into a fist. “Teresa must be still alive.”

“So that’s the point? Teresa?” He could almost feel the disappointment in Brenda’s voice. Thomas knew he’d broken her heart and he felt terrible about that, but how would he have been able to look into her eyes while not loving the girl as she loved him? 

“I have nothing left. Chuck is dead, Minho doesn’t want to see me again-”

“You have me!” She retorted, his voice breaking, and it would be foolish to deny that the girl was crying now. “You have me, you’ll always have me!”

It was just  _that_  kind of love that Thomas could no longer manage. All those who had cared about him had suffered and eventually died.  
He wanted to save her. He wanted to save Brenda from that tunnel of pain and tears, but she seemed not to want to let go.  
What others could see in him?  
_Why did they believe his life was worth more than their own?_

“I know, Brenda. And I appreciate it, I truly do.” He whispered with as much sweetness he could muster. “But...”

“But the truth is it’s not about me. Or Teresa. Or Minho and Chuck.” The beating of his heart echoed violently in his ears, along with the knowledge that she was approaching inexorably to the truth. “It’s  _Newt,_  the problem. You want him, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry.” He answered. 

“It’s okay, Thomas.” 

 

*** *** ***

 

See Stiles so destroyed  _ached._

It doesn’t even look like the Stiles she used to know anymore, with those amber eyes filled with pain. And she knew that probably that was the point: it was no longer himself.  
He barely responded when called and often abandoned the world around him to take refuge in one of his own, personal and non-existent.  
Stiles lived in his own thoughts.

Actually, Stiles was just  _not_  living.

He hadn’t had the strength to tell anyone of them what had happened during those months in which everyone had believed he had run away from home.

That day, the pack had met at Kira’s home and all the time Lydia couldn’t help but notice the boy listening in complete silence their intricate arguments.

“So are we dealing with a bipolar supernatural being?” Malia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“So my mother says. He's affected by bipolarity for about seven months.” Scott replied, analyzing for the umpteenth time the medical records of Alton Faraday, otherwise defined as ‘Beacon Hills’new mad killer.’

“Since supernatural beings have the ability to heal from wounds, he should no longer be bipolar. Right?” Kira added, with a slight shrug.

Scott opened his mouth to answer to the Kitsune, but surprisingly he was anticipated from Stiles.

“As a matter of fact, no.” Lydia quickly woke up from the trance in which she fell from the moment she began to scrutinize him carefully. “Bipolar disorder is a psychiatric syndrome. It’s a mood disorder, it alters the behavioral initiative, as well as motor skills and thought processes. Nothing that a supernatural transformation can repair.”

Lydia had forgotten to add how incredibly smart was Stiles. It always had been, often it was he who provided the missing piece to their investigations without end, yet from the moment he was back, the red-haired girl had known there was something  _profoundly different_  about him. Something about his knowledge; He had never been a biology, chemical or neuroscience’s expert. And now he spoke of cognitive science with the same ease with which they discussed of the weather.

The boy sighed, noting that his friends were looking at him as if he had just spoken in an ancient unknown language, so he tried to make his own explanation as simple as possible.« It’s psychology of behavior. It isn't a wound as another that can be easily cured by your supernatural nature. »

The banshee cleared her throat. “Stiles is right. If he was bipolar as human, he still is.”

The two exchanged a long look, maybe that was the first  _real_ contact they had since Stiles had returned to Beacon Hills. 

“This makes him even more dangerous.” Malia concluded and nobody said anything else.

 

*** *** ***

 

“Oh my God, are you even listening to you?!” Stiles yelled exasperated. “You don’t know him! He’s Alton Faraday, the fucking psycho we’ve been trying to find for weeks!” 

“You  _shot_  him, he could’ve died!” Scott cried, still shocked by his best friend’s behavior. 

That boy that perhaps he didn’t know as well as he thought.   
Lydia knew  _exactly_  how it felt like. 

“I didn’t want to kill him, I wanted to shoot him in the leg, just to keep him from killing you and Liam!” The brunet replied in kind. 

“Scott, I think that’s enough...” Lydia tried to intrude, but was again interrupted by Stiles, who now seemed hopelessly in anger.

He laughed bitterly. “You really don’t understand, do you? It’s about  _survival,_  Scott. When the world is hostile to you, you can’t waste time to come up with a peaceful plan. You must take action and, if necessary, to hurt.  _Kill, even.”_

The whole pack was now staring at him in disbelief, the Alpha most of all.

_“I don’t know who you are anymore.”_

And again that laugh, Lydia felt as if Stiles was stabbing her in the heart.  
“Yeah, what a surprise, right? Take or leave.”

“What the hell happened to you while you’re gone?!” The boy froze instantly, clutching his right hand into a fist at his side.

The red-haired girl thought for a moment that Stiles would finally told them all, but his hunch was wrong.

“I have to go.” He said lowering his voice.

 

No one stopped him when he came out of Scott's home looking down.


	2. A monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You came back.”
> 
> Newt smiled and Thomas' heart melted because seeing again that beauty had become one of his most craved desire.  
> “Yeah, I’m back. And I won’t leave ever again, Tommy.”

Thomas woke up with a start and sat up, heart pounding in his chest and his forehead damp with sweat.

He took two deep breaths and rubbed his eyes with his fingers; for some time now those nightmares were chasing him.

He decided to get out of bed to drink a glass of water in the kitchen, when he noticed an upsetting detail: he wasn’t in his room.  
It was in the _Glade_ _,_ lying on the grass in front of the West Door. 

_It’s not possible._ _  
_ _How can I be here?_

He searched for the digital clock he had on his wrist since he had become a Runner. It was three in the morning and the sky was still dark.

But Thomas knew well that even the sky itself was a pretense, that W.I.C.K.E.D. was deceiving them to carry out their sick experiment, he and the Gladers were nothing but miserable guinea pigs.

_Was he dreaming?_ _  
_ _Or had he never returned to Beacon Hills? Maybe he_ _’d_ _passed out in the middle of the Glade and his subconscious had built the life he could_ _n’t_ _have?_

Thomas shuddered. He didn’t know if it was the cold of the night - and it was strange, because the temperature there had always been mild - or that very scary thought.

_“Tommy.”_

And behind him there was Newt, with tousled blond hair, bloodshot eyes and two large dark circles under them.

_“Newt.”_

He looked angry, no, he was _furious._ The look on his face was tormented, his body shaken by continuous shivers.  
Newt was sick.  
Newt had the Flare.

 _No._ Thomas told himself. _That’s not true.  
The Flare doesn’t exist. _

Newt’s figure began to fade under his gaze, while his rational side was asking him to wake up, not to believe that huge lie, to let go of that painful fantasy.

“Thomas. _Focus.”_

And as if he had just put a spell on him, the brunet met the dark brown of his eyes - they were gentle, no longer angry - and everything around him took shape.  
He was holding him in that reality, perhaps he did not want to let him go, maybe he needed him.

And why would Thomas have to run away? After all he _needed_ Newt, immensely.

The blonde kneeled to be at his height, and took his face in his hands, stroking his cheeks, the curve of his nose, his chin.

“You came back.”

Newt smiled and Thomas' heart melted because seeing again that beauty had become one of his most craved desire.  
“Yeah, I’m back. And I won’t leave ever again, Tommy.”

The brunet wanted to get closer and touch him, but he seemed so elusive and fragile, that he didn't dare move.  
He wanted to kiss him on the lips, slow and deep and passionate, Thomas realized a few seconds later, but again he had to restrain himself because he and Newt had never had that kind of relationship.

 _“I know what you want.”_ He whispered and the hot breath of the blond collided with his face. It seemed wanton, in some strange way, and the skin of the boy tickled at the thought of being able to have more. “It’s so simple to know what you're thinking. It's always been easy.” He caressed his neck and immediately after his right collarbone. Thomas's body relaxed further under his rough fingertips and the peace and the intimacy of the moment led him to close his eyes and just focus on the sensations that only Newt could make him feel. “You were a good lad, Thomas.” 

A throbbing pain in his chest forced him to look at the blond, whose expression had changed: his sweet smile had turned into a mischievous grin, his eyes shone with a wicked light that didn’t suit him at all.  
And Thomas made a frightening discovery: his arm was stuck halfway into his torso. A slimy terror crept inside the boy; he wanted to _shout,_ pray Newt to let him go, telling him that he loved him more than anything else in the world.

“Shh. Don’t cry, Tommy. Don’t cry.” With his free hand the blond wiped the copious tears running down the brunet's amber eyes. “We can be together in this way.”

And it was then that reality struck him with the same force of a train.  
Newt was dead.

_He had killed Newt._ _  
_ _He had shot Newt._

His body twitched in a spasm and several sobs escaped his control. “I’m sorry, Newt. I’m so sorry.”

These last words seemed to annoy him even more, a wrinkle formed between his eyebrows and his previous evil grin disappeared to mutate into a rigid line. “You were a good lad, Thomas.” He repeated. “But now you’re a monster.”

And with that Newt tore his heart from his chest. Thomas felt such a sharp pain that made him yell louder than he could...

He woke up screaming and kicking into the bed of his room, a few seconds before his father came in running worried about his son and hold him in his arms, trying to calm him.

Eventually he calmed down and let the Sheriff lull as if he were a child, waiting that, beside his father, all his fears would disappear just as they once did.

Instead nothing happened.  
Thomas was still there, frightened, fucking terrified and clinging to a man unaware of his son's guilt.  
Sins from which he couldn’t redeem himself. Because Thomas could still be there, but Newt _was_ _n’t_ _._  
And it was all his fault.

***

“Rarely I have seen him like that, Scott.”

Thomas had woken up recently, the sun was high in the sky and a quick glance at his cell phone told him that it was almost time for lunch, but he felt exhausted.  
He was about to go down the stairs, when he heard quiet murmurs coming from downstairs: they were Scott and his father .  
Why was his best friend there? Had he come to apologize or had his dad called him alarmed by his child's behavior?  
So the curious brunet was hiding behind the wall and listening to their conversation.

“It must have to do with what he experienced during the months when he disappeared.”

The Sheriff ran a hand over his face andThomas' heart skipped a beat seeing him so desperate.

“I know you think he has changed. I know that sometimes you think he's not him. But he's _Stiles._ Scott, he's the same guy you grew up with.”

“I’m not so sure about that anymore.” The boy sighed. “It is that...sometimes, his look is different, what he does is not like Stiles.” He laughed sarcastically. “C'mon, Stiles couldn't even hold a gun and he not only fired, but also aimeid perfectly.”

Thomas winced hearing his words and wrapped his arms around his torso, as if to protect himself in some way. The nightmare of the previous night was a ghost that haunted both his mind and his soul.

“He did it to save you and Liam.” The Sheriff retorted. “Do you remember when you found out about Donovan?”

“It’s different, in that case it was self-difense-”

“And what’s different?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Just...give him time.”

And then he decided to come out, to make a step forward towards them. Towards that life from which he had been ripped off, because the truth was that his friends loved him and it hurt more than he could imagine seeing him so different.

Thomas walked down the stairs and the two looked at him dazed. “Many things have happened to me, while I was away.”He decided to sit on the penultimate step, because this discussion definitely wasn't going to be easy.

“You can tell us what, you can trust us, Stiles. I swear.”His father approached cautiously, as if he was trying to prevent the escape of a wild animal.

He looked him straight in the eyes. “I know I can. And I trust you, I really do. But I'm not ready to tell you everything. I'll do it one day, just not now.”

“Did they _hurt_ you?” Scott asked. 

“Yeah.” Thomas turned toward him and saw his face was contorted in an expression of concern and curiosity. “I was part of an experiment, together with a bunch of other guys.”

The two learned that new information widening their eyes. “That’s why you’re so clever?!”

And Thomas knew what he refers with that question. He nodded. “It concerned the human mind and teenagers' behavior, especially _anger_ _.”_ He closed his eyes for a moment, to give meaning to the words that were swirling into his head. “They played with us. They made us live only particular situations to study the way in which each of us dealt with them.”

His father clenched both hands into fists. “I want their names, Stiles. I want all those sons of bitches behind the bars of a cell-”

“Don't worry about it.” Thomas said coldly and his eyes fell to the floor. “They got blown up along with their headquarters.”

For a few minutes nobody said anything; it was clear that Stiles was not an helpless boy, not anymore.

“Have you killed anyone?” Scott asked once again.

“Yes.” The brunet admitted with a stern look. “I had to.”

Scott finally sat down beside him. “I’m sorry for what I’ve sad a few days ago. I know you, Stiles. You’re a good guy, not a murderer.”

Thomas almost laughed.

 _“You were a good lad, Thomas.”_ Newt’s words echoed in his mind. _“But now you’re a monster.”_

“I’m sorry too, Scott.” And it was a relief to get those words out. “I've changed and I can't help what I've become. But I'm really really sorry.”

His best friend didn't say anything else, he just put an arm around his shoulders and, in that moment, that was _enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! :)


	3. Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You're pack, Stiles. Or Thomas. It doesn't matter how you call yourself now. You're you. And you are pack. So we are here for you, whatever happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I know it's been quite a while, but I'm back. The next chapter is ready, I have to adjust some bits and pieces and edit it, so I'm going to upload it soon. I would like to tell you so many things, but I'm in a hurry.  
> I really hope you like it.  
> If you want to ask me something or want to tell me your impressions or simply talk, this is my Tumblr (https://edithedisons.tumblr.com/).  
> Bye, I love you all!

So,  _school._

Thomas had never thought that he would return to high school, not after all he had gone through, he considered it a closed chapter.  
But life went on and his professors didn’t scare him so much now that he had faced the Grievers.  
After all it was only a few months, then he would graduate and move out for college. Except that Thomas had not the faintest idea of what he was supposed to do.  
However, his grades had increased exponentially and now he only attended AP-courses. Everyone was a bit surprised by the fact that his level of preparation had improved because this was not what was expected of a kid who theoretically ran away from home – virtually kidnapped and forced into a series of extreme situations. On the other end, they had let go because, it was known, it was better not to be involved in oddieties in Beacon Hills.   
 

That was his third day at Beacon Hills High School and he was heading for the Lacrosse  field alongside Scott.

  
“The Coach is happy to have you back with us.”

  
Thomas smiled and shook his head. “When he sees that I suck more than usual, he’ll not be so happy again.”

  
His best friend laughed and placed the backpack on his shoulders; then he shrugged. “Tonight at Derek’s loft, right?”

  
The boy nodded. At times he was amazed at how he had managed to slip back so easily into the pack, how it was so _natural_ to concentrate on something as shocking as the supernatural. Thomas assumed it was because he kept his mind busy.

 

When they arrived at the field, the entire lacrosse team - already gathered around the coach - turned to look in their direction.  
And, well, Thomas was getting used to that too. After being away for so long, people probably must have lost hope - in case there ever was none. So it was not the first time he repeated to himself, while they were running their curious eyes along the length of his body, that it was perfectly normal to look at him _like that._  
 

Not to mention the fact that everyone believed that he had experienced some sort of teenage crisis to leave the Sheriff's house in the middle of the night, while he was on duty at the station. If only they had known the truth...sometimes he asked at the silence of the night,what would they do? _What would people do if they knew the truth?_ Would they look at him with pity and displeasure? _With distrust?_ They would have lingered over his eyes, perhaps, because no one could escape un damaged from such an experience. Thomas did not know.  
And probably he did not even want to know, since the adolescent crisis seemed to him a very valid and convenient excuse.

  
 

As they approached, the Coach put a hand on his shoulder.

  
“I'm glad you're back, but don’t be late for practice, Stilinski.Or I won’t think twice about kicking you out of the team.”  
And, okay, he deserved that.

 

Finnstock clapped his hands.“Okay, lazy asses, let's start with a little warm-up.  Ten run laps. The  last cleans the locker room.”

  
Thomas and Scott left their backpacks and lacrosse sticks on the bench and then headed for the starting line.  
Liam and Danny gave him a smile, while a boy,who had always reminded him of Jackson for the arrogance and the bravado he flaunted,smirked in his direction. And Thomas knew well why: he was always the one who usually came last and certainly he would never forget how disgusting the male dressing rooms were.

 

Lost as he was in his thoughts, he missed the start whistle, so he left after the others.  
'Shuck',he muttered under his breath, then focused on a good initial sprint.  
And, suddenly, he realized that there was nothing simpler and more liberating than running.  
He was no longer in the Maze, no longer had to worry about distracting himself so much to lose sight of a turning point, or find a Griever suddenly in front of his eyes, or struggle to make it back out before the Doors close for the night.  
He was no longer a Glader, a lab rat, a W.I.C.K.E.D. prisoner.  
Then why did he still feel like one? Why was he not able to give up the memory of those days, Minho's sarcasm, Teresa's voice in his head, Chuck's desire to see his parents again, Brenda's safety, Newt?  
Oh my God, why could he not let go of Newt?

 

“Stilinski, for heaven's sake, stop! Are you on steroids?”

  
Thomas was awakened by his Coach yelling, standing in front of him with his arms crossed on his chest.

  
“The ten laps are over.You won,are you sure you're okay?”

  
The brunet nodded frantically and only then he realized how breathless he was. He quickly wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked behind him, only to realize that the others were staring at him in disbelief.

  
And all those looks felt uncomfortable on his skin; he read judgments that weighed like boulders, questions he had not been able to answer floated in the air. Thomas almost didn’t hear Scott asking him: “Are you okay, Stiles?”.  
But the only thing that his mind could make up with were small sentences: _“I can’_ _t”_ _, “I can’_ _t_ _do it”, “I can’_ _t_ _bear it”, “it's too much”._  
So he ran off and hid in the locker room.  
 

He could not breathe: he gasped with a hand curled on his chest while the world around him was quickly losing consistency and turning, spinning,swirling confusingly.  
Thomas held himself up clinging tightly to the lockers and, when he thought he had found a fairly stable surface, he slid his back along it until he sat on the floor.

 

At first he did not even notice a figure approaching, so when it was a few meters away from him and all he could distinguish was a deformed mass, he curled up in a vague defensive position.  
 

Not understanding what was happening around him had rarely been so _terrifying._  
 

But when Thomas tested the softness of her hands on his face and when the pleasant (also, so so familiar) perfume she always wore reached his olfactory apparatus, he knew who it was.  
_Lydia._

 

Everything seemed less blurred : he identified a red lock of hair in front of the eyes, escaping her side braid, the expression worried and affectionate  at the same time. So  _sweet._

  
“Stiles.” She said and her voice echoed in his ears.“Stiles, breathe with me.”

  
“N-I can’t.”He hissed hastily.“I can’t do it.”

  
“You'll make it. You’ll always do. Remember?” She smiled at him. “One.”

  
_Breathe._

  
“Two.”

  
_Breathe._

  
“Three.”

 

_ - \-- _

“ _But I know that if he were here, he would be telling you the exact same thing. Pick your ass up and finish what you've started. 'Cause if we do nothing, then that means Alby died for nothing, and I can't have that.”_  
  
“Well, except Newt. He calls me Tommy.”  
  
“I like you, Greenie.”  
  
“You're kind of the glue that holds us together.”  
  
“I actually believe you...but I don't want another word about you dying.”  
  
He hadn't realized how much Newt meant to him.  
  
“Glad you're not bloody dead, Tommy. I'm really, really glad.”  
  
He found himself think of Newt, maybe the one he liked the most of all of them, not immune.  
  
“Don't do it. Tommy! Don't you bloody do it!”  
  
“I'm coming for you, Newt.” Thomas whispered, so softly that no one could possibly hear him.  
  
That grin sent a wave of reassurance, as if the world was okay again.  
_\---_  
  
 

“Stiles!” The Banshee shouted. _“Breathe!”_

  
But Thomas could not.  
He could hear his ears whistle and the sounds around him get far away, while Lydia became blurred more and more, more and more ...  
 

Until everything was sucked into darkness.

  
***

 

Thomas awakened with throbbing headache, hearing steady _‘beeps’_ in the background.   
  
His left hand was squeezed by a smaller one that, after having been able to focus on the red head resting on the mattress, he recognized as Lydia's. He tried to settle himself comfortably in the sterile hospital bed without making too much noise, but the Banshee awoke with a start.  
  
“Hey ...” She whispered with a faint smile on his lips.“How do you feel?”  
  
Thomas smiled back and raised his head slightly from the pillow. His face contracted in a grimace of pain: he soon discovered he had a bandage neatly wrapped around it.  
  
“You fainted and I couldn’t get you before you hit your head. The doctors say it's a small head injury, but you've lost blood and you have to rest.”  
  
She helped him place the pillow against his back,then left the room to call for a nurse.  
  
 

Faith - that was her name - told him to rest as much as possible and asked a few questions, such as how painful the headache was and whether he had complete perception of all his limbs, if he was sick or accused drowsiness. Then she gave him an analgesic and left him with the promise to come back an hour later.  
  
He felt kinda hazy and found it difficult to concentrate, but he knew it was because of the head injury, so he sighed and turned to face Lydia, who seemed lost in thought. His heart warmed up at the thought that she still genuinely cared for him.  
  
He _knew_ there was something special about that girl, he had always known: since they were children and he had fallen in love with h er strawberry-blonde hair. He had not lost hope even when she had become Jackson's girlfriend and had begun hiding her cleverness, playing the part of the beautiful, brainless girl.

 

He had always believed in her, even when no one had any idea what supernatural creature she was, even when she herself had doubted her abilities.  
And he had been by her side, Stiles had always been there, he had saved her from Eichen House risking everything to get her out of that hell.  
  
But Thomas? Thomas did not know what to do, what to say, how to behave.  
_Thomas was not Stiles._  
And he knew that Lydia understood that,she _always_ understood everything.  And the thought that she could not accept him and push him far away from her life all of a sudden frightened him seriously.  
  
Yet the girl was there with him, sitting on a very uncomfortable hospital chair, her face marked by fatigue and her hair disheveled.  
She had not left when he woke up, _she had not left him._  
Just like Stiles had not left her.  
And, regardless of everything, he knew that Thomas would not do it either.  
 

“What's your name?” She asked suddenly. “It's for the trauma, you know.”

  
“Thomas.” But when he saw the sadness in her eyes, he decided to retract. “Or Stiles. Whatever.” He shrugged to minimize the discussion.

  
She stared into his eyes for a moment.“How old are you?

  
“Eighteen.”

  
“What's your father's name?”

  
“John Stilinski.”

  
“Where have you been in the last year?”

  
He stopped for a few seconds. “Not here in Beacon Hills.”

  
Lydia sighed in frustration and settled back in her chair.

 

Thomas  knew how much everyone wanted to know what happened to him, they made him understand on several occasions.

“Lydia, I...”

  
“No, Stiles. You don’t have to say anything.”But her voice was as cold as ice. Then she added ironically.“I wouldn’t want you to have another panic attack.”

  
That hurted just a little and only because he knew that sometimes he could not control his feeling. 

But he smiled and retorted.“Otherwise you should kiss me again.”  
  
Lydia seemed surprised; she froze,then shook her head and Thomas thought he had upset her. But when their eyes met, she was smiling.

  
***  
 

Thomas was released in the early afternoon after the doctors made sure he returned the next day for a check-up. They also recommended that Lydia continued to ask him simple personal questions throughout the day, to check how he was handling the trauma.  
  
They had gone to his house and watched a movie munching on popcorns sprawled on the couch, Lydia relaxed as Thomas had never seen her since he had returned to Beacon Hills. He was glad that she trusted him enough to feel comfortable even after all that time.  
  
Then they headed for Derek's loft.

  
“Bro, how are you?” Scott asked him, pulling him inside in a tight and worried hug.

  
“I'm fine, Scott.”

  
“Then what the hell happened today?”

  
Thomas sighed and moved slightly away from his best friend.“I was feeling a little overwhelmed.”

  
“Your pack is here for you, you know.” Derek stepped forward from the back of the room. 

  
“What?” 

  
“You're pack, Stiles. Or Thomas. It doesn't matter how you call yourself now. _You're you._ And you are pack. So we are here for you, whatever happened.” 

 

And wow.  He did not believe that Derek had ever  told him  such loving words to him.  Or anyone, at least in public. 

  
“Well...so...yeah”, he stuttered clumsily.“I know I’m part of this pack. I may be human, but I feel the pull just as much as you do. Always felt it.”He smiled lightly. “But thanks anyway. I appreciate that.”

 

Derek smiled back and a feeling of peace made its way into his chest. 

 

He turned to look at Lydia and Scott, standing there, to support him, smiling too; and that was it.  
Thomas knew he could not have his old life back;  _but maybe, just maybe, he could build a new one with them._

 

 

 


	4. Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please..." he croaked out, sounding far more desperate that he intended to. "...make me forget, even for a while."
> 
> Or...in which Thomas is obsessing, Sonya makes an appearance and the pack goes to a party. Featuring an unhealthy coping mechanism and a worried Sheriff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!  
> Hope you like this chapter, I am happy with it, so I hope you will be too.  
> I know...Newt isn't here yet, but I feel like there is so much going on with Thomas at the moment. But I can tell you we're close.
> 
> I changed the rating and some of you must notice that the story will not be short as I originally expected. This is the fourth chapter and I have to write a whole lot yet to give a proper conclusion to that.  
> So...yeah. It will still not be too long; I don't even know if I will reach ten chapter.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for the feedback, I really love to read what you think of the story!  
> As usual, if you want to ask me something or contact me, this is my blog on Tumblr (https://edithedisons.tumblr.com/).  
> Love you all, good night.

Thomas had deluded himself that his life was taking the right turn.

 

But he was not sleeping. And, when he was sleeping, he was not resting, only losing his mind over a brand new nightmare that his subconscious decided to made up for him. 

 

Sometimes he wondered if W.I.C.K.E.D. still had the full control of his brain, if they were still manipulating him to do as they please.  
If they were pushing bottons in order to make him constantly picture Teresa’s death or his promise to Chuck and monitoring his EEG to study how he was _reacting_ to the situation.

In spite of that, Thomas _vividly_ remembered the glowing flames toring W.I.C.K.E.D. headquarters apart as a disturbing peace was making space into his heart, letting all the anger just flow away for a moment. 

 

He wasn’t hungry and felt like focusing on classes was an extremely difficult thing to do; what was their purpose, anyway? Why should he believe that school was useful when a secret organization kidnapped him all of a sudden and implanted all the knowledge they needed in his brain effortless?  
  
Fortunately, his grades weren’t slipping because he already knew that stuff, even thought it was inevitable feeling tired on the lacrosse field. Which was not a huge problem since he used to suck at lacrosse, so the Coach didn’t make such a big deal of it and thought everything had returned to the right place.  
 

During his endless night, he began doing some reasearch.  
He printed some articles that talked briefly of what had happened to him and the Gladers, a bunch of empty words that in reality didn’t explain anything concrete. Thomas was curious to discover what the world _knew_ about them, what were the most shared opinions. There were some theories and sure, some of them were actually pretty close to the general concept, but people knew _nothing_ about what Ava Paige and her minions did to them.  
_The Maze_ or _the Scorch..._ they were not even mentioned. People’s favorite thing to write seemed to be: _“Poor kids, hope they recover.”;_ a lot of articles went on and on about the importance of family and how lucky they’ve been to have the possibility to go back home.  
There were not photos and their names were not revealed too, which meant that none of the Gladers decided to speak up. 

 

Maybe they had turned page; it could be they were not stuck in the past like Thomas was. _Maybe they moved on,_ saw a second chance in front of them and didn’t hesitate to take it. 

 

He asked himself, as he was restlessly shuffling in the sheets of his bed, if Frypan decided to go home, meet his family and hug his little brother.  
If Brenda was still upset over their last phone call and if Minho was still angry with him.  
Thomas should muster up the courage to make a call and talk to them both, apologize once more because he lived under the impression that it was never _enough._

 

Sometimes, when he was feeling at his lowest, when nothing made sense anymore, he wondered if he did any good to those people. If his appearence in their life did anything else than amplify the pain. 

Those days were the worst: he felt like sinking into his matress and not seeing anyone for a while, because everything around him seemed _so overwhelming._

 

Thomas knew he was obsessing over something he couldn’t change, but he couldn’t help it. 

 

He started to look after his friends, trying to find their families, who they were related to. Thomas liked that kind of researches better, he didn’t know why, but they gave him hope. So he desperately clinged to it. 

 

The first he was searching for was _Newt’s._

 

***

 

Thomas hadn’t slept a blink that night and, at one point, become so invested into his research that he hadn’t even noticed the hours pass. 

 

He successfully drove himself at school without falling asleep behind the steering wheel and met Scott in the courtyard ahead of the entrance.  
His best friend shot him a worried look

 

“Did you sleep last night?”  
Before he could answer, Liam and Mason made their way towards them.  
 

“You look like shit.”

 

Oh, _how sweet._  
 

“Did you get any sleep last night? Or in the last 10 years?” Liam said to him, as he glanced eloquently at the dark circles under his eyes. 

 

“A-ha, very funny.” He gritted through his teeth, not really keen on returning the sarcasm. 

 

Mason seemed to get that, since he started rumbling about some party Danny was throwing that night at his house.  
 

“Thomas!” And suddenly a blonde head was on his chest and his torso trapped into a pair of skinny arms. _Sonya._

 

“Sonya?” He pulled her away enough to look at her in the face. “What are you doing here?” It was hard to stay with her, since Thomas had found out she was Newt’s sister and had to hold her and shush her sobs when he told her his brother was with her all along and now he was dead.  
He smiled nonetheless.  
 

“I missed you, so I though of coming see you.” Then her expression morphed into something _completely different:_ into furious rage and rawness. _“And take revenge.”_ She concluded pointing a gun to his chest.  
 

Scott and Liam immediately were on the alert, Mason was watching the gun shocked. Fortunately, nobody seemed to notice what was going on there. 

 

“Drop the gun.” Scott spelled with his Alpha tone.  
 

“You have nothing to do with this, so stay out of it.” Sonya pressed the gun more into his ribcage, so much that he was sure it was going to leave a bruise. Well, if he would survive. 

 

“Sonya, please...” Thomas dampened his lips to balance the dryness of his throat. “...can we talk?”

 

“Yeah?” She arched an eyebrow and looked like she would destroy him with a single glare. “Like you did with Newt?”  
 

“I _did_ talked to Newt.” He emphasized. “Just let me explain.”

 

The blonde remained silent and gestured with her head to continue talking. But he couldn’t explained what he did there; not in front of Scott and Liam and Mason. “Not here. We’ll go somewhere else. I’ll tell you everything – anything you would like to know and then, if you want, you can still kill me -”

 

“Over my dead body.”

_Well, shit._

 

***

 

The Sheriff – aka his father – seized her gun and insisted on bringing her to the station, where he told her he would like to make a statement about what she did. 

 

Thomas knew his dad was overreacting, but could he blame him? He just had his beloved son back and he dreaded that someone could take Stiles away from him again.  
 

Before entering the station, as soon as Sonya was in there, he stopped his dad gripping his arms. “Send her home, dad.”  
 

“She tried to kill you, you know very well I can’t do th-”  
  
_“Please, dad.”_ And he didn’t know when, but there were tears in his eyes and a strong desperation in his voice. “I know her. She’s a good person. Let her go home.”

 

His dad sighed and closed his eyes to massage his eyelids with the tips of his fingers. Then he looked at him for a long time. 

 

“Okay.”

 

***

 

It turned out that Sonya had asked Lydia where to find a certain Thomas that looked exactly just like him and that the red-headed girl sensed something was off with her. Voices were crowding her head and she knew well what that meant, so she called the Sheriff.  
She basically saved his life, even thought Thomas refused to believe that Sonya would have killed him in cold blood, right in front of his school. 

 

“So?” The pack asked him when he approached them at lunch time.

 

"So we should really go to that party."

  
***  
 

Thomas had _no_ intention to be miserable that night. He wanted to pretend he was free and careless, he wanted to let go of the guilt he carried on his shoulders every day. He wanted to be _someone else._  
And really...what was he _always_ doing? _Acting._ Trying to please the others doing little things out of his character and more into Stiles'. Because there, in Beacon Hills, he was still _Stiles._ He could not let go of him, he had to live into his big shadow and pray it didn't swallow him entirely.  
But to do what he intended to do, to shut down what was keeping him up at nights, Thomas needed a little help.  
A little help that was named _'alcohol'._  
  
So, as soon as the pack arrived to the party and they all lost sight of each other - Thomas may or may not had done that on purpose -, the brunet found himself a beer in the kitchen of Danny's house.  
He drank two of those and, when he understood that they were not gonna do the work - at least, not all of it - he was able to snatch a bottle of vodka.  
And it really was disgusting, how much he was enjoying drinking that colorless liquid that had such a strong and slightly unpleasant taste, feeling free to do whatever he wanted, to be who the hell he wanted to be but himself.  
  
"Hey bro, you need to mix that with something." Someone said behind him.  
 

When he turned around he didn't recognize the guy and he was not feeling like answering him, so because that night he didn't give a shit, he stayed silent, glaring not-so subtly at him.

  
He laughed raising his hands, defeated. "Okay, do what you want, it was just a piece of advice…"

  
"I don't really need that." Thomas mumbled, much more grumpy that he ever was. 

  
"...but if you want to get drunk, Tequila shots are perfect. Well, I guess a bottle of Vodka kinda works too..." The guy blabbered, reminding of his little energetic self of some years ago. 

  
Thomas squinted his eyes at him. He didn't seem to have bad intentions and actually, it would be surprised if he could hurt a fly with those big brown eyes of his. 

  
"Okay, slow down." The kid shut up and stopped moving his hands animatedly, letting them drop to his sides. "Let's do Tequila shots."

  
"Yeah?" His face lightened up and his whole body seemed to be charging of a new found energy. 

  
"Yeah." 

  
***  
 

 _His name was fucking Chuck._  
And he seemed Chuck; he had his same enthusiasm for everything, some sort of inexplicable admiration for Thomas, a whole world to give to others that sometimes slipped out of his words.  
  
Chuck told him he was new; he arrived that week and wasn't too good at making friends. He decided to go to that party because everyone at school said it would be _'super-cool',_ but all he was feeling was loneliness.  
And Thomas' heart stung, so he drank a little more, relishing into the burning sensation of the alcohol going down his throat, and treated him differently from the beggining, gentler.  
  
He didn't know who Thomas was, what happened to him; he didn't hear that story yet. The brunet knew that he would eventually find out, because voices travelled fast.  
Plus, he introduced himself as _‘'Thomas’_ without thinking much, so...yeah. It would _definitely_ not be difficult to figure out that he was lying all along.  
  
At their fourth shots - or were they the fifth? He was starting to lose the count - Chuck proclaimed that he was going to stop. 

  
"Damn man, I'm so fucking drunk." He laughed as he rested his head on the marble counter of the kitchen. 

  
Thomas shook his head. "Didn't take you as a lightweight."

  
"Hey, watch your mouth, stranger." Chuck opened an eye to look at him and pointed a finger clumsly to his chest. "And you know what? This thing here is so cold that I think I've sobered up a bit."

  
"Yeah? No shit, man!" He exaggerated making a face at him. "Wanna drink another one?"

  
"Yep." He answered, suddenly getting up, unsteady and staggering. Chuck was almost stumbling on his own feet in the attempt of getting a good grip on the bottle to fill their cups. 

  
They giggled and spilled some of the Tequila, then somehow managed to cheer and drink again.  
  
"Sti-iles..." Thomas felt a sweaty body plastered along his side, even before he could turn around and notice it was Lydia. 

  
It took no genius to understand that she was pretty shit-faced too.  
She struggled with her hair that had fallen in front of her face and, when she finally was able to get a sight of him, smiled mischievously. 

  
"Hi." She said, so close to him.

  
"Hi." He responded, enchanted. Lydia was _gorgeous,_ it was pointless denying it.

  
"Come dance with me." She whispered into his ear, while taking his hand.  
  
Thomas looked at Chuck. He winked and raised his red cup at him. "Have fun. See you around." he silently said, only moving his lips. 

  
The brunet nodded and Chuck left right after.

  
"Okay." He said to Lydia.

  
***  
 

The music was rumbling in the speakers. Thomas felt the vibrations against his chest, as he felt Lydia's soft skin through the dress she was wearing.  
  
She was swaying her hips - where Thomas had put his hands, keeping her close - to the rhythm of the song; her red hair a mess on the brunet's shoulder, her eyes closed.  
Thomas was following her - with difficulties at the beginning, but better now that they had established a good pace -, nosing her cheek and neck, enjoying the little sound she made when she appreciated a particular touch.  
Thomas nibbled a piece of skin above the earlobe - a very much appreciated gesture since she couldn't hold a moan and backed against his growing hardness, making him gasp in return.  
Before he could think about anything, she turned around and captured his lips. Her hands were on his cheek and, he had to admit, he didn't think that kissing Lydia would be like that.  
  
Stiles had been in love with Lydia for _as long as he can remember._ He had wanted her and took care of her and believed her when no one else did.  
Stiles always thought that their kiss - because, you know, there was the 10-years-plan - would be _memorable._ That he would feel fireworks burst into his chest and butterflies and in his belly; that it would be beautiful and emotional and he would remember it for the rest of his life.  
  
Instead, he felt _nothing_ except arousal. Excitement. As she sank her hands into his hair, as their tongues touched and moved around each other, he was reminded once again that he was not Stiles anymore.  
Still, he cared about her; he loved her like everyone else loved his friends. But he was not romantically involved with her, not anymore.  
  
That didn't mean he didn't want to kiss her anymore. He was drunk and he couldn't say he didn't like where this thing they were doing was headed.  
Even if it was _wrong._  
  
But, when Thomas was letting himself go, someone pulled him away from Lydia and the center of the room, dragging him with force through sweaty bodies that were dancing without care.  
Just like he was doing mere seconds before.  
  
Turned out it was _Derek._

"What the hell were you doing, Stiles?"

  
And wait, was he always so attractive when he was angry?

  
"Dancing. Having fun." He dropped his gaze to his lips, pink and plump. Did he always have those lips, too? 

  
"That's Lydia!"  
Yeah, he guessed Derek was pretty hot too. _So Thomas kissed him._  
  
And...woah. That was _good_ too.  
Again, no feelings involved, but still really damn fine.  
It was different than kissing Lydia; it was not pale and soft skin, long red hair and a faint scent of vanilla.  
It was hard and rushed, it was beard that stung enough to keep him anchored to reality, short hair to grip and pull violently. It was _intense;_ he didn't really understand if it was his imagination or if Derek was actually returning the kiss - anyway, his full lips were against Thomas' and after a minute there was also a hint of his wet tongue. 

  
"You're so drunk..." Derek said pulling away with a deep breath. 

  
But Thomas didn't matter; drunk Thomas was insatiable, it seemed.  
He peppered his neck with little kisses. "And you're not enough."  
  
At that, Derek pushed him away, creating enough distance between them to let him understand that whatever they were doing, it was over.  
"I can't do this, Stiles. You're drunk, I'm sorry."  
  
Thomas was _hurt._ He felt rejection burning him like the sun in the Scorch; he felt guilt for doing that to Derek, his pack; but more that that, _he felt disgusting._  
He wasn't like that.  
But then, _who was he?_  
  
He ran away; he didn't exactly remember what he was up to.  
He drank more, maybe. Or kissed someone else, who knows. Or danced or got to know new people.  
  
Thomas didn't remember.  
_And it was good, because he didn't want to._

  
***  
 

Thomas woke up in a bed he didn't know, with a pounding headache and a awful taste in the mouth. He felt a bit nauseous too.  
He slowly opened his eyes, getting adjusted to the lighting and recognized the loft. He was in Derek's bed.  
  
Suddenly, everything Thomas had done last night came back to him.  
The alcohol, the music, the kisses...he felt so ashamed. 

  
"Your heart beats like crazy." 

 

Stiles jerked into a sitting position, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him. Derek was leaning against the door frame, arms folded and hair a mess. Thomas didn't know if it was his massive hangover, but he was acutely aware of the veins popping out of his forearm and the way his muscles were tightly clenched. 

 

"Stiles?" He arched his eyebrows. "Are you freaking out?"

  
Thomas lowered his gaze. Of course he was freaking out, he had literally thrown himself on him, eager and horny like a stupid teenager. _"No."_

  
Derek smiled; _of course_ he knew he was lying. "Okay."  
  
Thomas was starting to find very interesting the design of Derek's sheets, when the wolf broke the silence once again. "Do you want an aspirin? And maybe breakfast?"

  
The brunet looked at him and couldn't help but noticed hesitation in his eyes and in the way he shifted from his previous position. 

  
"Yeah, an aspirin and coffee would be nice."

  
***  
 

It hit him later, while he was lazily munching on a biscuit, that _Derek had returned the kiss._ He was sure of it now. He had said to him that he couldn't continue because Thomas was drunk, not because he didn't want to.  
Why?  
  
Thomas cleared his voice before speaking. "I'm sorry about last night."

  
Derek seemed surprised; maybe he didn't think that he would have brought it up. "It doesn't matter."

  
"Yes, it does, Derek." He retorted, serious. "I'm sorry I put you in that position."

  
The werewolf snorted a laugh. "What position?" 

  
"The position in which you had to deal with a stupid drunk kid that was bothering you." 

  
"You were not bothering me." 

  
Thomas sighted, frustrated. "Yes, I was. Stop trying to make me feel better. I kissed you! Of course I was bothering you." 

  
"I'd never said I didn't like that kiss." And okay...when did he get so close? 

  
Thomas was sitting on a stool near the kitchen counter and he was pretty sure Derek was on the other side of it a few moments before.

  
_Wait. What?_ "What?"

  
"Listen...I don't know what you're trying to forget, who you're trying to forget. But I'd like to do that again, if you want." 

  
Thomas gaped. And Derek didn't waste any time. He came closer and put his lips on Thomas'.  
  
In some strange way, it was different from last night.  
_Different as good._  
He tasted of coffee and of something else that he couldn't quite figure out; he was kissing him gently, so sweetly that Thomas found it hard to believe that Derek and the sourwolf he knew years ago were the same person.  
  
The brunet raised his head a little, to let the other have a better access to his mouth and spread his legs so Derek could settle between them.  
He must say, it was a pleasant way to forget, to let go of his concerns.  
Definitely healthier that alcohol.  
  
The werewolf did something with his tongue that made Thomas shudder and raise his arms to put them around his neck, tugging him closer.  
Derek panted against his lips and the brunet decided to be bolder, hooking his legs over his hips. He hummed contentedly in return and tilted his head to deepen the kiss, as his hands gripped tightly the back of his head and the side of his thigh.  
  
It felt extremely nice. It had been a while since Thomas had been touched and touched someone in return like that.  
His last year was a mixture of running for his life and worrying about the safety of his friends, all that trying to realize the better way to survive escaping from W.I.C.K.E.D. hands.  
He thought about it, sometimes; even if his memories had been completely swiped away, he was aware of having been involved in relationships. Plus he kissed Teresa and been with Brenda for some time, before he decided she was not who he wanted.  
Maybe he had always knew, because he had always wanted him.  
Even back in the Glade, as he was resting on his sleeping bag, next to Chuck who snored loudly. Thomas kept his image in his mind for as long as he could: his sandy hair and his smile, that made his body tingle all over. He repeated the accented _'Tommy'_ over and over again, never getting tired of it...  
  
"Please..." he croaked out, sounding far more desperate that he intended to. "...make me _forget,_ even for a while."

  
Derek watched him with his green eyes almost entirely swallowed by the dark of the pupils, as if he was searching for something in particular on Thomas' face.  
  
He must have found it, because he nodded. 

  
***  
 

"Why do you smell like sex and Derek at the same time?" Scott asked him when he got home, only to find him lying down on the couch in front of the TV. 

  
"Why don't you mind your own business and keep you werewolf-y scenting away from me?" Thomas retorted sarcastically, as a slight blush appeared on his cheek. 

  
"Dude! Why are you having _sex_ with Derek?"

  
"It's been only once, Scott! And because I wanted to."

  
"You wanted to? What kind of answer is that?!” Thomas took a seat next to him, distractedly watching the cartoon that was on. 

  
"It's not like he was complaining…"

  
Scott made a disgusted face. _"Ew, gross!_ Too many details!"

  
"You asked for that, asshat."

 

They remained silent for a little while. 

 

"So what? Are you in love or something?"

  
He shrugged dismissively. "It's just sex."

  
_"Oh my God…"_

  
"Anyway, it doesn't matter 'cause it won't happen again." 

  
"No?"

  
"No. _It's not fair to him."_

  
"And is it fair to you? Stiles…" Scott started and he was...so _tired_ of talking, of being comforted by his best friends with sweet words that were not for him. 

  
_Oh, you have no idea what I deserve.  
You have no idea what I've done. _

  
"Stop it. I'm telling you, it's over." He told him with shaky voice. "I promise." 

***

 

Later, when his dad came home, he stated that he wanted to talk to him.  
Sensing it was something serious, Scott got up and leaved with an affectionate ‘goodnight’.  
 

“I want you to go to therapy.” The Sheriff began, just like that. “With everything you’d gone throught and I know you’re not sleeping. Also that girl yesterday, she must have freaked you out-”

 

“No.” Thomas simply answered.  
 

“Stiles-”

 

“I will _not_ go to therapy.”

 

“Son, trust me, it would do you so good. I’m not saying you need it, but you should give it a try.” He tried to convince him. “I’ve been said that this doctor is really good at dealing with traumatic experiences and-”  
 

“I won’t go to therapy!” Thomas repeated once again, raising his voice and unleashing his anger. He knew his dad wanted him to be fine, but therapy was not the right way to do that. 

 

“Why?” The Sheriff fought back.

 

“ _Because I’m sick of people fucking up with my mind.”_ He yelled. And it felt a bit like making an admission, like uncovering a piece of his frustration and exposing it for him to see it, to understand how much he was suffering. 

 

His dad came close. “That girl... _Sonya.”_ He took a deep breath. “She told me you killed her brother.”

 

Thomas frozed on his place. He felt a salty and hot tear going down his cheek, as he took in the words. “She had any right to kill me.”

 

“No, son, no.” His dad hugged him and Thomas gripped to the back of his jacket as if it was his lifeline. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

 

Thomas nodded.

 

 

At the end of the night, he felt like the weight he was carrying had lightened up. 

_He slept._


	5. Breaking point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thomas?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> So...Newt's back!  
> I really hope you like the chapter and you are not disappointed with their reunion (I promise there will be a much more meek and loving reunion, though).
> 
> Like always, this is my Tumblr (https://edithedisons.tumblr.com/) if you wanna talk or ask me something. I would love to know what you think about the evolving of the story, I appreciate your feedback so much!
> 
> Truly loving you, bye

“Good morning.” Derek smirked down at him, his head casually rested on the palm of his hand, amused. 

 

Thomas groaned and pressed a pillow on his face, shutting down the morning light that had made his way into the loft. He felt like sleeping forever. 

 

But Derek was not going to let him. He took the pillow away from him and, before the brunet could protest, kissed him on the mouth.  
He tried to appear upset, but it was proving to be a not so easy thing; not with the hot lips of the werewolf on his, demanding and challenging. 

 

And Thomas was not one for turning down the challenges. So he reversed the positions and straddled Derek’s hips, fighting against him for the control of the kiss. He let his big hands creeping on his naked back, only to stop on the back of his head to push him closer to his body. 

 

Then they heard a phone ringing. It was Thomas’.  
He reluctantly broke off the kiss and detached himself from the wolf that, once again, was not agreeing with him. In fact, he thought that it would be a good idea to draw a wet trail of kisses along his jaw first and his neck then. 

 

“ _Derek.”_

 

Nothing.

 

“I can’t believe I prefer when you were a sourwolf.” 

 

That time he snorted a chuckle against his skin, at which Thomas shivered and almost send his phone to hell, to keep going with Derek. 

 

But he snapped back to reality and quickly took his device, only to see that it was Scott who was calling. Stiles threw a confused look at the werewolf – who, in the meanwhile, had stopped teasing him and was watching at him closely. 

 

“Scott?” Thomas answered. 

 

“Stiles, Lydia called me. She has a bad feeling; we have to meet. My house in ten!” He hurriedly, breathless, as if he was running. 

 

“Okay, but...are you okay?” The brunet frowned. 

 

“Yeah yeah...see you in a while. I have to call Derek!” And before he could say something else to him, his best friend had already hung up. 

 

Derek’s phone rang straight after and both of them rolled their eyes, before Thomas got up and began searching for his clothes discarded on the floor. He found Derek’s black shirt all crumpled near the bed and took it, only to threw it at his face. 

 

The werewolf tried to maintain a strict face because he was still talking to Scott and they both agreed that they better keep their ‘arrangement’ a secret. 

Thomas barely hold back a laugh, while he continued in his search for his jeans and hoodie. 

 

A search that turned out to be _useless_ once Derek ended the phone call. 

  
Oh well, he guessed they had some more time.

 

***

 

Malia broke the lock without too many ceremonies and the boys found themselves looking at the iron door, now ajar.  
  
"We're in the right place." Lydia reassured them once again, her Banshee powers an overwhelming proof.  
 

Scott nodded slowly and, after taking a deep breath, entered the dark room cautiously, with the others following right behind him; they could not afford missteps, not now that they were so close.  
The alpha studied the environment in search of the light switch and, when he found it in the left corner of the room, he hurried to press it. 

 

Thomas felt a strange smell, somehow familiar and incredibly suffocating.  
A knot formed in his throat because…

  
"It's a morgue." Liam said, evidently shocked.

  
“Thanks for stating the obvious.” Derek remarked sarcastically, wandering among the various bodies contained in the characteristic black plastic bags.

 

“Also...” Kira added, inspecting the space with a hand preventively closed around the handle of her katana. “I feel like my senses are kind of dulled. Am I the only one?”  
 

“No.” Scott answered, scanning some jars on a shelf and deciding for not taking them. “This place is partially made of mountain ash. It’s almost like Eichen House.”

 

Thomas walked up to him and actually took one of those jars to get a better look of them. “He seems to have a sort of obsession for mountain ash.” He checked the content of a can near the others. “He has so many types of it...it’s crazy.” The brunet murmured, showing them at Scott. 

 

Lydia was by his side in a second to take a look, while the alpha came closer to his girlfriend that was talking to Liam. “I was just telling Liam that there are other rooms that we should check now that we’re at it.”  
 

Scott nodded and shot a look at Derek, who pushed the door open.  
_Someone_ took that as the right moment to jump quickly into the room and point a gun to his head, holding him by the throat.  
  
The werewolf could easily overtook him, but everyone in that room smelled mountain ash: they were aware that those bullets were _soaked_ in it.  
  
The attacker must be very thin, because even if he was taller than Derek, he was very well hidden by his bulky frame; Thomas couldn't see them, not with Scott, Kira, Liam and Malia in the way.  
  
"You're not as subtle as you think you are." And...something was wrong.  
They chuckled. "Who the buggin’ hell are ya?"  
  
_It was not possible._  
Thomas could recognize that voice and that accent _over thousands._  
  
"Stiles?" Lydia called him, caressing his right arm. "Are you alright? You turned pale all of a sudden." She whispered to him, while Scott was telling something to the guy that was holding Derek down.  
  
"Yeah, I just..." He blinked a couple of times, as a way to regain clarity of the world around him that seemed so far but yet so close at the same time. "I have to check something."

 

 _He had to see._  
  
And before Lydia could answer to him, he made space between the others and stood in front of them.  
  
It felt like _dying._ It was much more violent and painful than when he got shot.  
It felt like being swallowed by one of his nightmare and finally understanding reality all together.  
_W.I.C.K.E.D. would never stop._ And he couldn't do anything to stop them. There was no way out through that hell, he was still imprisoned, still held captive by them. They owned him, it doesn't matter his tattoo wasn't real: Thomas was _property of W.I.C.K.E.D. ._ They gave him life and maneuvered him like a puppet, creating the circumstances he was forced to live and even controlling his actions on occasion.  
  
Thomas never won against them.  
  
_"Thomas?"_  
  
Fuck, it was going to be so difficult with those dark brown eyes locked to his, eyes freed from the Flare, eyes that reminded him of the Glade and the smell of grass in the early morning, when the Sun was still hiding and only a part of his rays enlightened the surroundings.  
  
"Who are you?" Thomas spelled, trying to keep his voice firm and unaffected.  
  
But the hurt that showed on Newt's face after telling him those words was truly heartbreaking. Thomas had to repeat himself that that was not real once again.  
  
"Thomas what the shuck...did these people hurt you?"  
  
"Stiles what's going on?" Scott cut in, taking a step forward. 

  
Thomas shielded him with his arms, silently warning him to not get closer.  
  
"Drop the gun." Surprisingly, Newt did as he was told. He slowly - still on alert - lowered the gun and let go of Derek.  
The wolf immediately took his arms and circled his wrists behind his back, holding him on place, preventing the blonde to run away.  
  
"Who are you?" Thomas asked him again because he was never going to leave without a proper explanation.  
  
_"Tommy."_ The brunet flinched and Newt followed the involuntary movement. "Did you really forget me?" And maybe it was then that Thomas began to question the situation: what if that was _the real Newt?_  
What if that's why he seemed on the verge of bursting to tears?  
  
"Don't call me _that."_ Thomas managed to pull out, so shaken that he had to lowered his gaze.  
  
"I always called you that. What is this really about? It's me, Tommy. I didn't expect tears of joy, but at least a bloody hug." He seemed to regain confidence while speaking. "Definitely not the cold shoulder. To be honest I wasn't even expecting to meet you. Here of all places."  
  
Thomas furrowed his brows. 'Here of all places"? What did that mean? 

 

"What's this all about? Are you kidding?" He chuckled, hollow, bitter. "This is another variable. And it's damn frustrating that even after we blown up your-"  
  
"Thomas, W.I.C.K.E.D. has nothing to do with this! I was coming to Beacon Hills to find you and I've been kidnapped by a fucking psycho that knocked me out and brought me here!"  
  
It made sense, part of his brain was telling him. He was injured and had bruises on his neck, bruises that vaguely reminded of fingertips.  
_'Do not believe him!'_ The other part of his brain was screaming. _'They're fucking with your head for the umpteenth time!'._  
  
"I will not ask you again." He started, mustering up the last drop of courage left in him. "Who are you? How could W.I.C.K.E.D. recreat Newt's image? And which one of you bastards had survived?"  
  
"The only bastard here is _you!"_ Newt shouted, frustration all over his face. "You've always been a slinthead, but now you're being insane!" Derek pulled him backwards, receiving a deathly glare by the blonde. "Listen to me for the first time in your life!"  
  
"How can I believe you? I watched you dying, I-"  
  
"You didn't watch anything, you're too much of a _coward_ to watch me die!" And Newt or not, that hurt a lot. It didn't help that both of them had tears in their eyes either, as if they were in physical pain.  
  
Also, Newt was kinda right; after pulling the trigger, Thomas turned around and ran away, not having the strength to see his best friend with a bullet he himself shot into his head.  
  
"Will you fucking leave me?" The blonde suddenly barked at Derek, who shot a look at Thomas, as if asking for his permission. The brunet nodded and the werewolf loosened the grip, just before Newt freed himself with a strong tug and stepped away from him.  
  
He then turned his attention on Thomas once again. "Thomas, listen to me." He carefully locked eyes with him. He was so close that he could count his eyelashes; in that moment, it really didn't matter that guy probably wasn't Newt, Thomas was still _mesmerized:_ by his sandy hair and his sharp cheekbones, by his dark circles under his eyes, something he never saw him without, tiredness always seeming to be part of him, by his thin and chapped lips and, most of all, by his eyes, two deep lake in which he could easily get lost. "I have nothing left, you know I haven't. I can't have my memories back because W.I.C.K.E.D. is gone and...I'm not so sure I would like to have them back. I am who I have become, what I lived through and the people I fought for. And the Gladers are my family: Minho is my family, Frypan is my family...hell, even Gally is my family -" He let go of a chuckle and lightly shook his head with a private smile tugging at his lips. " _You are my family._ You're the only things I remember, the only things I _need_ to remember." 

  
Thomas' heart was swelling in his chest.

  
"I'm glad you remember; I'm happy you have people of your own that knew you even before the trials. But you have to believe me. W.I.C.K.E.D. is dead. I'm not an image, not a stupid variable, you know it's _impossible_ \- even for them - to do something like that." He stopped for a second to take a deep breath. "I'm _alive,_ flesh and blood." He unexpectedly squeezed the brunet's hands, as if he wanted to prove himself. Thomas felt his body heat and noticed the look of his skin: pink, _healthy,_ with veins barely visible, the Flare just a far away memory that still terrorized him. "I really need you with me. _Please, Tommy. Please."_  
  
All of them were startled by a loud bang. 

  
"Faraday is here." Liam stated quietly, but frantically, searching for the switching light to turn it off.  
  
"We have to go." Derek whispered to them. "And we have to figure out what he is plotting."  
  
"I think I have an idea." Newt said, gaining their attention once again.  
  
"Oh, no..." Derek started. "You're _not_ coming with us. He's going to notice we've been here if you're missing, plus we didn't even know you and Stiles thinks you're an impostor."  
  
"Listen, you shucking piece of kl-"  
  
"He is coming with us. _There's no way I leave him here."_ Thomas put himself between them, scared that they might get into a real fight. He knew how stubborn the both of them were.  
  
"But..."  
  
"Okay, guys? I really hate to interrupt this, but he's coming here, so if we could just move? It would be amazing." Kira retorted, trying to be as much kind as possible - like she always did.  
  
Malia stepped forward and was about to open the door, when Newt spoke again. "There are other people here that needs to be saved."  
  
"We haven't got the time right now." The were-coyote bit back, with a grimace on her face and the hand still on the doorknob, impatiently wishing they would stop talking.  
  
"But if we could just-"  
  
_"Newt."_ Thomas had his hand in his before he could even think about the meaning of the gesture and took in his guilty gaze. He doubted that an image from W.I.C.K.E.D. could feel guilt on leaving some strangers behind; that was such a Newt-thing to do. "We have to go. We will go back, I promise."  
  
The blonde considered carefully his words biting his lips, lost in thoughts. Then he nodded.  
  
***

 

Newt settled on the passenger seat of Thomas’ jeep, while Scott, Kira and Lydia sat in the back. A heavy silence hovered in the small cabin; the brunet was gripping the steering wheel so strongly that the knuckles of his hands had turned white and the lanky blonde was looking absent-mindlessly out of the car window. 

 

“Why isn’t Minho with you?” He asked, all of a sudden.   
 

Thomas gripped the wheel harder – if possible. “I wanted to come home. He wanted to stay with the others.” 

 

But he swore Scott could’ve heard the stutter of his heart, loud enough to understand he was lying. And, even if he knew that Newt had actually no proof he was not telling the truth, Thomas was sure he was not buying any of it, despite not carrying on the discussion. 

 

“And Teresa?” He tentatively added, his voice barely a whisper and his eyes looking at his fingers on his lap.  
 

This time, Thomas spared him a glance before turning his eyes back on the road and he knew he wasn’t going to contain the hurt from showing on his face. 

 

“Teresa’s dead.” 

 

The blonde spun around in his direction, squinting his eyes in disbelief.

 

“ _What?”_ He managed to get out. “How did th-” But he seemed to catch up on his words and sense that Thomas was not in the mood to talk about it. Besides, even the timing was not appropriate: it had been a long day and the brunet felt drained. He just wanted to go home and pretend that he and Newt had not a whole world of things to discuss; he craved for his company. 

 

“I’m so sorry, Tommy.” He offered in the end, briefly caressing the back of the hand placed on the stick shift. 

 

Thomas just smiled, grateful.

 

***

 

They ended up at Scott’s house and Derek was currently murdering Newt with his look, while the latter, sitting on the couch with the arms folded on his chest and a leg crossed over the other, was watching him just as warily. 

 

Lydia, Scott and Liam were observing the scene with squinted eyes, Malia was rummaging in the fridge to find something to eat and Kira decided to make tea. She probably thought it would be a nice gesture – since Newt was British and all – but really, her family lived on the strange belief that tea could solve _anything._ And Thomas...Thomas was just walking back and forth in the living room to release some of the tension he was feeling, being weirdly awkward. 

 

"Tommy, you're giving me a bloody headache." Newt finally spoke up.  
Thomas stopped in his track and gave him an apologetic smile, before scrambling over him.

  
"You have to tell me _everything."_

  
He smirked and looked down, ignoring Derek's stare still fixed on him. "Do I? Don't you think I'm the next W.I.C.K.E.D. evil experiment?" He sadly retorted, making Thomas feel bad for even thinking about something so crazy. 

  
"Please, Newt." The brunet begged him with desperation in his voice, the emotional luggage of that day starting to kick in. 

  
Newt sighted. "It's a long story."

  
"We have time." And that seemed to convince him, since he moved a little forward, ready to speak and Thomas dragged a chair near the sofa and took his place, with his head resting on his arms and his chest plastered on the back of the chair.  
  
Kira returned with a steaming cup of tea and she handed it to Newt, that took it with a smile, grateful for her kindness. In the meanwhile, Malia dropped in the sit next to Derek with a bag of chips in her lap, already halfway eaten. Scott shot her a look, but she just shrugged, careless of what her alpha was thinking.  
  
Newt cleared his throat, nervously. Thomas didn't know if he was aware of the others inside the room or if he cared about them listening to his story - like he himself painfully was - but the urge to talk to each other and make the pieces fit together was stronger than anything else.

  
"Someone at W.I.C.K.E.D. took pity on me, apparently. Since the bullet only grazed the side of my head, I was not dead. And they took me to a hospital. Can you believe it?"

  
"Wait." Thomas stopped him. "The bullet didn't make it through y-you-"

  
_"No, Tommy."_ Newt answered, understanding that the brunet was having difficulties at even completing the sentence, just the thought hurting him. "It still hurt me, I still could've died, but someone decided that the simulation for me was over. They left me at the entrance, or so I've been told."

  
"B-but..." Thomas stuttered, tears in his eyes. "They made me believe you were dead, they kept on repeating I could've saved you." He explained with trumbling voice. 

  
The blonde's looks softened and he seemed on the verge to reach out for the other, in the end deciding not to. "They lied to you."

  
"Yeah, I'm not surprised." Newt nodded and his gaze fell once again on Thomas, to look for the permission to go on with the story. He nodded in return.

  
"The recover was slow and at the end, I was a bit out of it. They called the police, I had no idea what to do: I had no documents, I didn't know my last name or who my parents were or even my bloody age-"

  
"Well, you look like you are 14 years old." Malia interrupted him while munching on the cheesy chips, actually reminding the two that other people were in the room with them. 

  
"Thanks for the remainder." He sarcastically grumbled. "Anyway, I got away. Pretended not to remember a shucking thing; the doctors said that an amnesia could be possible because of the head injury, so they believed me."

  
Liam let out a whistle: "That's smart, dude!", he enthusiastically called, gaining everyone's attention, including Newt that seemed a bit confused. The beta just shrugged. "Oh don't pretend you aren't curious. I'm sorry, Newt, go on."

  
Thomas was worried that the comment could upset him, but he relaxed when he saw the amused expression on his friend's face. "I told the police the only thing I was able to remember was you. They found ya, told me that you were missing and your father – the Sheriff, apparently – was searching for you.” He licked his lips. “They wanted to place me in protective services, since they didn’t believe I was of age, but they did a test and it turned out that-”

 

“You are 19.” Thomas completed for him.

 

The blonde rolled his eyes. “Always stealing the scene, don’t ya Tommy?”

 

“You’re older than me.” He continued, ignoring the teasing. 

 

“You’re the Greenie, after all.” He shriveled and took a sip of his tea, which should have cooled down by then. “This only makes it official.”

 

“I am not.” The brunet pouted childishly. “But this doesn’t explain how you ended up in Faraday’s hands.”

 

“So impatient...” Newt murmured. “Hey, that’s the bastard’s name? Faraday?”

 

“Alton Faraday.” Liam briefly stated. Thomas glared at him for interrupting them again, but the beta shook his head as to ask him what was his problem. “We are trying to catch him for weeks.”

 

“Well, I’m sure he’s pretty smart.” The lanky guy offered. “When I was released from the hospital, I set off to come to Beacon Hills.”

 

“How did you know I was here?” Thomas got up and took place by Newt’s side, feeling brave. He flinched in surprise, but turned his body towards him and came closer, scrutinizing him carefully from under his eyelashes. 

 

Thomas felt so nervous; he had never thought that he would get to see Newt, that he would be offered a second chance. His nightmares haunted him for  _ so long  _ and he got so used to bring a crushing guilt on his shoulders, that he began to think that he didn’t deserve good things.  
And maybe Newt was sensing all those feelings. He knew him. Like,  _ really _ knew him. He had no idea who Stiles was; the only one he met was Thomas. 

So that would explain why the British was trying to show that he still trusted him with affectionate looks and intimate smiles, with casual touches and his entire body language. He was destroying  _ all his barriers, _ piece by piece, fiercely digging with his nails, scratching away every single regret. But all Thomas could do was asking himself:  _ ‘How can you trust me after I put a gun to your head?’ _

 

“I didn’t.” Newt’s voice brought him back from the depth of his thoughts. “I supposed you were here.” He took a breath in and then breathed out. _“With the others, too.”_ He dared to add, pursuing his lips. 

 

And the courage he felt earlier just withdrew back. “It’s kinda of a long story too.” Also, a story he was freaking scared to tell. 

 

“We have time.” The blonde promised, repeating his previous words. _“Later.”_

 

He just nodded, gulping down the lump in his throat. 

 

“Returning to Faraday...I don’t remember much. He must’ve bloody drugged me with something. I woke up today and only you were there.”

 

“You should get some test done. See if there’s still something in your system.” Lydia suggested him, speaking for the first time. 

 

“She’s right.” Thomas agreed. He was on the point of asking him something else, when Derek decided to take the matter into his own hands. 

 

“You should do them now. Otherwise the drug could wear off by tomorrow.” He was still looking at him as if he could kill him only by the power of his mind, but he actually provided a reasonable point of view. 

 

But he was going to turn it down anyway. “I don’t think this is the right ti-”

 

“It’s okay. He’s right.” Newt agreed, not letting Thomas finish the sentence, perfectly understanding what he was going to say. 

 

“Newt, you don’t have to.”

 

“I want to catch him, too, you know.” He mumbled and his eyes showed how determined he was. “There are _so many_ people in there. Either alive or dead. We have to get them out. And finding out how he’s managing to kidnap whoever he wants is a good starting point.” 

 

“I could call my mom and ask her to do the exams, if you want?” Scott proposed, shifting the attention on him. “She’s a nurse at the hospital, so it shouldn’t be a problem.” He explained to Newt.

 

“Okay.” The Brit got up and stretched his legs a bit. “Lead the way.”

 

***

 

“Okay.” Melissa started. “All set and done.” She taped a cotton swab at Newt’s arm and got up, holding the test tubes in her hands. 

 

“Can I come with you?” Thomas asked her, all of a sudden. She seemed to be taken aback; but, after giving his request a thought, she nodded. 

 

“I can’t promise no one will be at the lab, though.” The woman looked around, making sure she was not forgetting anything important. Then her eyes settled on the blonde boy, now up near Scott. “Bye, Newt. It was good to meet you.” 

 

“Likewise.” He kindly smiled. 

 

Thomas shot a glance at Scott, silently communicating him to watch over Newt while in his absence. The alpha nodded in understanding.  
 

“Let’s go.”

 

Only when they were halfway to the laboratory, Thomas revealed what his plan was. “Is there a chance I could run the exam myself?”

 

Melissa squinted her eyes; the brunet could practically see the wheels turning into her head, in a vain attempt to connect the few dots she collected.

“Not to be rude, but _how could you know how to do it?”_

 

“I honestly don’t know.” And it was the truth. That was all thanks to W.I.C.K.E.D. and to the strange abilities they implanted in his brain. “But I can. Just trust me.” 

 

She studied his eyes for a really long time and Thomas had nearly lost hope, when they got into the elevator and she answered him, while hitting the right button. “No one better be in the lab.” 

 

Then she sighed. “I’m gonna get fired one of these days.”

 

***

 

"Midazolam." Thomas stated, still looking through the lens of the microscope.

 

"I guess it's convenient if you want to kidnap people." Melissa commented and pointed at a slide raising her chin. "Are you looking for something else?"

 

"Hm?" He put aside the microscope for a moment to comprehend what she was talking about. "Oh, no. Nothing."

 

"So I can clean this, right?" She uttered, leaning over the table to get a hold of the slide. But Thomas stopped her by gripping her wrist.

 

"No." He immediately let go, aware of the rashness of his action. "I mean, yes, I'm searching for something else. Just for _precaution."_

 

Truth was, he didn't even know what he was looking for, what he _expected_ to find.

 _Traces of the Flare?_ The disease wasn't real and he knew that. But he needed a proof _-_ _a_ _n undeniable and palpable proof -_ that Newt was fine, healthy.

 

"Want to tell me about it?"

 

He shook his head in denial. "I just wanna know he's okay." The brunet whispered in the end, so gently that it seemed like he was confessing her a secret.

 

Melissa caressed his arms. "Take your time. We're going to leave the other test tubes here so they can do simple routine exams. I will let you know when the results are ready."

 

"Thank you, Melissa." And Thomas meant that, with all his heart.

 

***

 

"You are in love with him." Lydia said to him like that the next morning, while they were sitting in the kitchen with Scott.

 

When they returned home from the hospital the day before, Thomas easily noticed how much Newt was tired. So he gave him some of his clothes - and the sight of him wearing his clothes, how the t-shirt strung loose off the shoulder kept him awake for some time that night, among other thoughts - and send him into his room.

 

Newt had been reluctant on taking his bed, because he was a little stubborn slinthead, but eventually gave up and climbed on Thomas's bed, where he almost immediately fell asleep. The brunet spent some time watching him sleep, relishing into the sight of his peaceful expression, a small, thin nothing curled between his sheets.

 

Something made Thomas’ heart swell. Something that he couldn't _\- or didn't want to -_ name.

 

But Lydia was already jumping to conclusions, apparently.

 

"I'm _not_ in love with him." He denied, before taking a sip of orange juice.

 

"Yes, you are Stilinski. I know that look!" She insisted, beating the fist on the table, determined to prove her point.

 

"Shh!" He hushed her, placing a finger on his lips to reinforce the concept. "Be quiet or you'll wake him up!"

 

Lydia smirked like she needed no more proofs and was about to add something, when Scott decided to worsen the situation.

 

"But...I though you were having sex with Derek."

 

"Oh my God..." Thomas murmured, dropping his head and banging it hard on the table. Why couldn't he just shut up?

 

 _"What?"_ The red-headed girl stuttered, sounding more confused than ever.

 

He tried to compose himself again. "I told you it was _just_ sex. No feelings involved. Besides...I also told you that nothing happened after the first time?"

 

"So were there several times?"

 

They both ignored her.

 

"Yeah, dude, and you expected me to believe you." The alpha ironically retorted, taking a bite of his energy bar.

 

"I was very convincing."

 

"Yeah yeah, whatever makes you sleep at night." He dismissively said, like Thomas was full of crap.

 

"This explains why Derek was murdering him with his eyes yesterday." Lydia commented, leaving a very incredulous Thomas gaping at her.

 

"I told you: _no feelings!"_ He hissed. He noticed that Derek had been a little hostile towards Newt, but he just assumed that he felt suspicious about him. He had never been a feisty and welcoming type of guy anyway.

 

"That's you, not him. Have you asked him how he felt about you two being fuck-buddies?"

 

And, holy fuck, he couldn't believe that the girl was implying that Derek liked him.

 

"We aren't even fuck-buddies." Thomas shrugged, feeling a little bummed out at the thought. What they had...it was fun. _Simple._ They hadn't felt the need to label it, so he just went with the flow.

 

"Basically." The red-headed retorted, before biting an apple and finally giving some attention at the open file about Alton Faraday that his father brought him last night from the station.

 

The Sheriff hadn't had the chance to meet Newt yet, because when he got home last night, the boy was already sleeping and that morning had left home pretty early since he had a lot of cases he was working on. They had a long conversation: he knew about Newt and he was shocked when he heard the kid was alive and sleeping into Thomas’ bed.  
John hugged his kid for a long time, like he could read how much that situation was affecting him.

 

The brunet let himself be comforted by his father, longing for the familiar touch and affection. What he loved about the Sheriff was that, somehow, _he understood._ Everything Thomas told him had been met with nods and questions, with advises and small confessions.  
Never once he was judged or accused by him.  
 

When he began talking to him again, pouring his thoughts and feeling into their conversations, Thomas surprisingly learned that _his father wasn't expecting him to be Stiles,_ just like that.  
He was aware his son was a different individual now and he was embracing this other side of him, without reserve.

 

So, as soon as he told him about Newt, Thomas had the impression that the Sheriff was seeing right through him; the regret, _the burning guilt,_ the frustration, the weight of having done something terrible to a person he loved: it was all there for him to see and...he understood.

 

"Anyway..." Lydia uttered after a few minutes of silence, sounding even surer than before. "This doesn't change the fact that you are head over heels for the blondie."

 

Thomas rolled his eyes and snorted, opposed at her suppositions. "I told you I am not!" He complained. "Scott, a little help?"

 

"Sorry, dude. I think she's right."

 

Lydia burst with a satisfied 'Ah-ah!' and winked at him in victory.

 

"He's kinda hot." She offered, pushing all his buttons - again and again.

 

But, before he could answer with something he would seriously regret later, Newt showed up in the kitchen, rubbing an eye with his hand and yawning. 

 

And, yeah, Thomas found him hot normally, however all his mind was managing to pick from that view was how adorable the Brit looked. All disheveled from the long night of sleep, his blonde locks - now much longer than he remembered them - sticking in all kind of directions, but appearing soft and silky. Thomas wanted to touch them. As a matter of fact, _Thomas wanted to touch him all._ That was the thought that _scared him._ And embarrassed him. So much that he blushed under his relaxed gaze.

 

Also, Newt was still wearing his clothes and the sight was _glorious;_ made him a little crazy too, seeing him all cozy in his baggy clothes was quickening his heart rate.

_God, this was not going to end well._

 

"Good morning." Newt said and his voice was still hoarse from sleep. The three of them waved at him. "How long have I been out?"

 

"For a while." Thomas answered, deciding to take a mug and hand it to him. "Don't worry about it, I know how long it was since you had a good night of sleep.”

 

Newt smiled and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Where did ya sleep?"

 

"On the couch." The Brit's face morphed into a grimace. "Hey, it's not so bad! But I talked to my dad and we agreed to fix the guest room. If you're going to stay. Well, i-if you _want to,_ that's it." 

 

Newt looked at him with his huge dark brown eyes scrutinizing him and he couldn't help but feel slightly intimidated. What if he didn't intended to stay? What if he didn't want to be with Thomas?

 

Yet, he smiled. "I'd like that." Then he took a sip of the hot drink. "I feel like I'm addicted to this shucking thing."

 

"Yeah, tell me about it." Scott joked, now reading the same file as Lydia about Faraday.

 

"Should've requested it when we were in the buggin' Glade." He continued.

 

 _"The Glade?"_ Scott asked frowning, while Lydia began listening to the discussion too.

 

Newt looked at Thomas, who simply shook his head. He didn't tell them anything about those days and he'd like to keep it that way. "Yeah, that's how we called the place where we were staying." And, before they could ask more questions, he got up and pointed a finger at him. "By the way, we have to talk."

 

"Now?"

 

_"Now, Tommy."_

 

***

 

They went to Thomas' room.

 

Newt changed into a pair of jeans and stole one of the brunet's hoodies, making him feel something into the pit of his stomach when he observed him putting his hands into the front pocket.

 

"Tommy..." The blonde started and Thomas felt jumpy with nervousness. "...why aren't you with the others?"

 

"We have our differences and-"

 

 _"Don't lie to me."_ He cut him off and suddenly there was no more space for his lies. He was demanding the truth and he would not give up until Thomas would give it to him.

 

The brunet sat on his bed and put the elbows on his knees, taking his head into his hands for a second. "I told him."

 

"What? Who?" Newt asked approach him, wrinkling his eyebrows.

 

_"I told Minho I killed you."_

 

It was so quiet that Thomas believed Newt was going to hear his heartbeat going crazy. The blonde just stood there, squinting his eyes at the revelation, like he couldn't believe it.

 

"Excuse me?" Newt let out, looking conflicted.

 

"Minho knows what I did to you." He repeated, not feeling brave enough to look into his eyes, even though he could feel them piercing through his head.

 

"I can't fucking believe it." The blonde mumbled and Thomas stiffened because he sounded angry. "Thomas! _Bloody hell, what's your problem?!"_

 

The brunet gasped a couple of times like a fish; he had no idea what to say. "I couldn't keep that away from him."

 

"Yes, you could!" Newt barked, making Thomas flinch at the harshness of his words. "It's not fair, it was not your right!"

 

"He's my best friend..."

 

"He's mine _too!_ And yet I asked you and only you to kill me!" The Brit ran a hand over his face in desperation. "Thomas you had _no_ right." He dared to glance at him only to discover that he had angry tears at the corner of his eyes.

 

Thomas realized it hurt him more than anything else. Seeing him so broken, after all they went through, because of him...it was heartbreaking.

 

Newt cleared his throat, not giving up on him. "So did ya get into a fight? Did he kick you out?"

 

"No." Came as an answer. "I left." He added so softly that he doubted Newt had heard him.

 

 _"You what?"_ And, if before he had been angry, now he was _furious._ Thomas could hear it in his voice, could point out from the way he was pacing across the room.

 

"I just...couldn't take it anymore." He explained himself. "He was not talking to me. Brenda was not talking to me either because we had broken up." The brunet pulled at a lock of his own hair. "He is _never_ going to forgive me, Newt."

 

"So..." The blonde quickly collected his thoughts. "You abandoned them because you couldn't handle the situation?"

 

"Newt-"

 

"No, Thomas!" He yelled, back in a way from the other that was standing in front of him, trying to get closer. Even if it seemed like approaching a wild animal, not knowing what reaction to expect. "You left them. What kind of leader does that?! I told you before _the only thing we have is each other."_

 

And Thomas saw it: _the disappointment._

It made him sick to the stomach.

 

"Please..." He reached out for him, but Newt escaped him again, like the thought of them touching repulsed him.

 

 _"You left them."_ He repeated in a haze. "And then you replaced them with your old friends."

 

"That's not fair." Thomas finally stood up. "It's not like that."

 

"Bullshit!" Newt shouted, not taking any of it. The brunet felt like there was no way to make him understand his reasons. He felt like that with Minho too - so small and powerless -, incapable of talking some sense into him. "You threw away all the klunk we had gone through and came back home with your tail between your legs. Congratulations, Greenie." His voice was so sharp that he felt it cutting his limbs, burning and scratching him.

 

This was not a nightmare; this was reality.

And, somehow, it turned out to be worse than his terrors: there they met again, be happy for a while - they talked or hugged or kissed or had sex - and then Newt killed him or, either, hurt him really bad.

 

This was Newt giving up on him, losing all the trust placed in him and Thomas felt like the whole world was crumbling and dashing around him. Possibly, on him, burying him under the suffocating weight of his actions.

 

"I have to go."

 

_The last straw._

 

"Don't leave me." Thomas whispered in pain. "Please."

 

Newt avoided his eyes carefully. "I can't even be in your same room right now."

 

He turned around.

 

_A click._

 

He closed the door behind him.

 

 _Newt left._ For the second time. Still because of Thomas.

 

_How could he be such a disaster?_

 

His legs gave out and he fell on the floor, drained, a familiar void was making space inside his chest, growing like cancer inside of him.

 

The last thing he clearly felt were tears streaming down his face and his friends' arms around him, trying to keep him in one piece.

 

_Shame that who was supposed to be the Glue, shattered him in infinite shards._

 

 


	6. Ten days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt would not come back.
> 
> It was all Thomas could repeat to himself, all he was able to think about.
> 
> Or, Thomas can't stand the thought of Newt leaving him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super short chapter to let you all know I am alive. This was supposed to be the first part of the sixth chapter of the story, but I really wanted to post something and I feel like it adds a sort of anticipation, of suspense to what is going to happen next. And, trust me, it's a lot. Also it is fragmented and kind of bare because that's how Thomas feels: empty, but in reality so sad and hopeless it hurts.  
> I hope it doesn't disappoint you and that you can forgive me for my gigantic late - I lived through a rough period and I couldn't bring myself to write anything. I'm still sorry, though.  
> Anyway the rest will come in a few days, maybe at the end of the week because I have an upcoming exam at uni, but I promise it will make up for the wait. I sincerely love the feedback this fic is receiving and I want to thank you all for reading what I write. You make me so happy, you can't even imagine how much I appreciate you.  
> See you soon! XX

_The day after_

 

Thomas slept. 

He didn’t know how he could sleep after all Newt said to him; maybe it was the best way to keep the pain far away. 

To not sense the emptiness he left right in the middle of his chest. 

 

So Thomas slept. 

 

 

_Two days after_

 

Thomas was looking at the ceiling of his room as if it was holding the answer to all his questions.  
He was sprawled on his bed, laying on it wide awake, sheets crumpled against his body and a pillow on his stomach. 

There was something so unfair in the fact he had Newt back just to watch him run away from him; it was like salt on an open wound.

 

He had never craved anyone so much like Newt: seeing him alive after he thought he had killed him in the Last City for so long, had left him incredulous. He was not used to having nice things, not anymore. So losing him one more time seemed the only possible ending to the story. 

  
Thomas didn’t deserve him. And Newt understood that and walked away from him before it was too late. 

  
_Good that._

 

 

_Three days later_

 

When the Sheriff walked into his room that night, pushing the door quietly, as if he was ready to face Thomas’ broken heart, he pretended to be asleep. 

 

He sighed in relief at the sound of his dad’s footsteps fading away; he was not ready to face his own self. 

 

 

_Four days later_

 

Thomas felt nothing. 

No pain, no sorrow, no guilt.  
He was fine. 

 

Thomas was _void._

 

 

_Five days later_

 

The Sheriff was being patient.

But even his patience has a limit, as well as Thomas’ number of absences at school. So, when that morning the man pulled the blankets off him, he got up without complaining.  
 

He kept getting distracted. 

 

The Gladers would have loved school.

 

Chuck would have made a lot of friends; if he closed his eyes, Thomas could clearly imagine him, smiling at a group of kids, waving off at the brunet from across the school cafeteria. 

 

Teresa would have been one of the most admired girls of the school; she was gorgeous and freaking smart, good-natured and kind. She would have taken over the school, being his best friend without the need to betray him to do what she thought was right. 

 

Alby would have been a big shot, someone important everyone knew and valued: maybe the student council president, taking care of matters like he used to in the Glade, easily earning every student’s respect.

 

Minho would be a jock, a good one; he would win all competitions and flash a dazzling smile at the cheering crowd. He would embarrass Thomas whenever he would have the chance and be a flirt, perfectly aware of the power of his dimples. 

 

Brenda would be one of the rebels, the tough girl of the school. She would scare all boys away, letting them think she didn’t have a heart, when she would admire Thomas from far away, accepting he would not be hers and being content with their friendship. 

 

Frypan would be everyone’s best friend; he would always bring an extra sandwich and a pack of biscuits or chips to share with his friends. He would be there, beside all the Gladers whenever they would need them, the perfect friend at the perfect moment.

 

And, finally, Newt.  
Newt would always have anyone’s back and keep them together.  
He would help Alby, being his second-in-command without putting himself on the front row. Nevertheless he would steal glances from everyone without even intending to or noticing it and earn trust with a battling of eyelashes. 

Newt would get Thomas away from the absurd situations he somehow would put himself into, he would act like the reason to his instinct. 

 

He would be there. With Thomas. 

 

He would not be gone. 

 

On his way home, Thomas puked on a bush beside the sidewalk. 

 

 

_Six days later_

 

Maybe it was the fever, maybe the incessant shivers that shook his body, maybe the feeling of cold sweat on his forehead and back, wetting his shirt, but all he could see was Newt. 

 

 

_Seven days later_

 

Newt would not come back. 

 

The mere thought wrecked Thomas. 

 

 

_Eight days later_

 

Newt would not come back.

 

It was all Thomas could repeat to himself, all he was able to think about. 

 

He lost Newt like he had lost Minho. He failed both of them, even if he could not help but think he had disappointed Newt more, thoroughly, dropping the bomb like a bolt from the blue, doing the one thing the blond would never expect. 

 

So no, Newt would not come back. 

 

Thomas would not see him ever again.

 

 

_Nine days later_

 

It hurt so much that not even the pack presence stopped him from crying, finally unleashing his feelings.

 

He sobbed like a baby, letting the tears streaming down his face without even bothering to wipe them away, sniffing from time to time and stuttering Newt’s name like it was stabbing him with a knife.

 

_Ten days later_

 

A knock on his door made him roll his eyes. 

 

Everybody was checking up on him after the sudden display of his emotions the day after and Thomas was tired of it; he just needed some time alone, now that he had surrendered to the fact that Newt was permanently out of his life. 

 

He had a hard time accepting it – he was still having a hard time, if he was being honest with himself -, but he felt like he was on the right path. 

 

It was fine – or, well, it was really not. 

 

Anyway Thomas will be okay. All he needed was time. 

 

“Come in.” He whispered and when the person on the other side of his room knocked again, he repeated himself, louder this time. 

 

The response was another knock. And another one. And another one.

 

Thomas snorted, annoyed and got up to open the door, not before stumbling over a pile of dirty clothes that laid on his floor. 

 

But what happened a few instants later left him paralyzed, asking himself once again if it was not a dream. Because _Newt_ was staring right back at him.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt was not only his best friend, he was more. Thomas wanted him to be so much more and wanted to be it for him in return.
> 
> Or, Newt apologizes to Thomas, Thomas finally admits his feelings to himself and the pack is the pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!  
> Sorry for the late - as always. I hope you like the chapter, it means a lot to me you are reading the crazy story of these two, thank you for the feedback from the bottom of my heart :)  
> Without further delay, I leave you to the chapter!

Newt was on him before he could think about what to do next.  


He hugged him close to his body and inhaled the sweet scent of his hair, holding him tighter, effectively trapping him between his arms that were circling his waist. The blond cannot seem to get enough, though. He moved his hands all along Thomas' back, touching every part they could reach through the thin material of his t-shirt. 

  
Thomas just buried his face in the crook of Newt's neck, not quite believing what was happening yet. 

  
The blonde scraped the nape of his neck eliciting almost a purr out of the other, who snuggled more in the embrace and murmured against his skin: "I thought I would never see you again."

  
Newt slid back the brunet's hair - which were plastered on his forehead - and rested his lips directly there, softly grazing the spot. 

  
"I'm sorry, Tommy." He felt him saying. _"I'm so sorry."_ He repeated, before moving to caress Thomas' temple with his cheek and finally settling his head on the other's shoulder, his muscles clenched and tense under his hands, fully displayed on Newt's back, fingers digging to touch the bumps of his spine from time to time. 

  
"No, Newt...I-"

  
"Let's not talk for a while? Please?" He interrupted him with a small voice, so uncharacteristic of him that the brunet felt forced to let go what he intended to say.

  
If Newt wanted to take it slow, they would take it slow, no matter how much Thomas needed to gave voice to his thoughts, no matter how fast the words were skimming inside his head. 

  
Newt had come back to him, for him, and he promised himself, in that precise moment, that he would do anything to make him stay.  
Including shutting up and support him when he alone was desperately seeking comfort. Including putting him first, above his needs, ignoring the fact he left for ten days in which Thomas was miserable. A dark period in which he relapsed into the cloud of his self-deprecating thoughts and suffocating guilt; ten days in which Thomas swam into the depth of his sorrow, risking to drown and not come back anymore. Becoming nothing more than a lifeless corpse the currents brought to the shore.  
  
But Newt was there; they were into each other arms and Thomas felt at ease for the first time after he didn't know how long. So he just let the sense of rightfulness intoxicate him, sink into him as if it belonged to him. 

  
And, maybe, it did.  
  
 

***

 

  
"I still can't believe you told Minho."  
Newt said to him in a whisper, as if he was confessing him a secret.  
  
"I had to." He briefly shot back, knowing straight away that the moment of 'the talk' finally arrived.  
  
"Yeah?" The blonde was cocooned in Thomas's blankets, his wide brown eyes fixated on the brunette's profile, scrutinizing him.  
  
They eventually grew tired of standing in the middle of the room, gripping at each other with no intention of letting go. So they both agreed to move on the bed, worn out from the emotional roller coaster they were living.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
It was raining, drops were violently drumming against the windowpane, composing an unknown melody while the wind shook the trees.  
  
Thomas turned to Newt; he put a hand between his head and the pillow and looked at the blond for a moment, like he wanted to make sure he was seriously alive and not the umpteenth nightmare.

  
"I couldn't live keeping that secret away from him. The thought I did that to you and I was lying about it to Minho made me feel sick."  
  
Newt lowered his gaze and Thomas couldn't help but imagine what thoughts were on his mind. He knew he wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping, haunted by memories and terrors which felt too real more than once. He picked that up from the blonde's dark circles under his eyes, standing out more than normal against his pale skin tone, from the slight tremors of his hands when he got lost in his mind. It all reminded him too vividly of the Flare and of black and green-ish veins skimming over his arms and later his hands, his neck, his face.  
  
The truth was that W.I.C.K.E.D. broke them and they all were coming to terms with the aftermath. It wasn't going to be easy, but Thomas felt that, with Newt beside him, he could actually get better and learn to leave everything behind his back. He felt in every fiber of himself the blonde will be that person for him. And he desperately wanted to be the same for Newt. Even if the latter was not keen on showing any sign of weakness, hiding his vulnerability behind a secure stance and a dry kind of sarcasm.  
  
But, apparently, that didn't stop him from reach out to caress the brunet's cheek and tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. The sudden contact came unexpected, like the flash that lightened the room, quickly followed by a loud thunder.  
  
"I didn't want that for you. I trust you more than anyone else; at that time I trusted you more than myself, that's why I asked you." Thomas relaxed under the feather-like touch of his calloused fingertips. "I'm sorry I've been so selfish. I'm really sorry you felt like that, Tommy. You don't deserve it."  
  
Thomas circled the blonde's wrist with his hand, a familiar fire he hadn't felt for a while was now burning him from inside out. "You have nothing to be sorry about." He stated strict, leaving no space for doubting.  
  
_"So do you."_ Newt retorted with equal strictness, determination flooding the brown of his eyes.  
  
"I'm not so sure about that."  
  
The blonde cringed at those words, his mouth morphing into an unsatisfied frown, and added nothing else. But the determination didn't get lost, not even for a second, and Thomas knew he understood it will not be easy to free him from the weight of his guilt. Thomas saw how he promised to himself he would still try.  
  
Newt bursted out laughing, rolling away from him on the bed until he was on his back, staring at the ceiling.  
  
"What?" He asked, furrowing his eyebrows, taken aback, but not being able to keep a smile at the sight.  
  
"We're so fucked up. Both of us, Tommy."  
  
Thomas chuckled in understanding, glad the blond lightened the mood. "Well...I suppose we have our issues."  
  
"You betcha."  
  
After Thomas didn't know how much, when he was lulled by the rain and about to close his eyes and give up to sleep, he couldn't refrain his mouth from moving, almost out of control. "I'm glad you're here with me."  
  
Newt - who seemed to be just as sleepy as the brunet was - murmured back: "I couldn't be anywhere else. I feel like I belong with you."  
  
And he didn't know if he gained the few courage that was left or if those words made him braver, but he sneaked an arm around Newt's waist and rested his damp lips against his temple. "I feel like that too." He breathed against his skin.  
  
Thomas sighed in relief when he felt Newt leaning into his touch, sinking further into the embrace, and warmth spread all over his body, leaving him content and at peace.  
  
His eyes closed immediately after.

  
 

***  
 

Thomas was running.  
 

He could not remember why, but he knew he was in danger. He knew he was running for his life – he recognized the feeling like the back of his hand.  
  
The tingling at the base of his neck, drops of sweat streaming down his face and his back, under his shirt; his own heartbeat in his ears, the violent feeling of the blood roaring into his veins; his ragged breath and the extreme tiredness in his limbs which did not prevent him from running, always faster. 

 

But why? Why was Thomas whizzing through the air like a dart? Why was he feeling like he couldn’t stop for anything in the world?

 

Was he alone? Was he trying to reach something – or someone, maybe?

 

Newt. Where was Newt? He had to hurry. Newt needed him.  
 

Newt was sick, he needed the serum. Thomas knew the serum was just going to postpone the inevitable and was okay with that; he preferred pretending he was going to find a way to save him in the meanwhile than passively accepting his best friend was slowly dying. 

 

He ran. Not anymore for his life, but for Newt’s. And, really, it was not a big news: Thomas had the feeling that everything he was doing lately, it was for Newt and Newt only. 

 

Sometimes it was unbearable, because deep down he admitted that there was no cure for the Flare. That the disease was death itself. 

 

But he could not give up; Newt never gave up on him, not even once he did not trust Thomas, even if his words and actions were often rushed and instinctive. So Thomas owed him, regardless what Newt thought about the matter. 

 

He was there. And Newt was not.

 

It was not too late, was it? Thomas would never forgive himself if it was. 

 

If he failed, again. 

 

He felt like screaming and unleashing all his frustration, like crashing the small vial still firmly clutched in his hand and spill the useless liquid away.

 

Where the hell was Newt?

 

‘Right there’, his brain provided, so quietly that it seemed like it short-circuited just seconds before and was still recovering from the trauma. 

 

It was the truth, though. Newt was right there, his blond head between Thomas’ legs. 

 

And, suddenly, his breath was not erratic from the running, nor were his heartbeat in his ears and the blood pumping fast in his veins: it was all Newt’s fault. Of his kisses on his inner thighs and his light touches on his lower back, then on his bum, on his legs. 

 

Delicate fingers so far away from where Thomas really wanted them – no, where he craved them. And not only there, but also inside him, taking possess of all the space, giving him the sheer pleasure he pictured more than once before. 

 

A delicious warmth engulfed his dick and Thomas moaned loudly, throwing his head backward and gripping the sheets with a hand, while he let the other one creep into Newt’s golden locks. 

 

Like the vines which were pinning him to the wall, climbing up his body without mercy, effectively blocking every single way out of the Maze. 

 

Thomas knew he had to move, to free himself if he didn’t want to die there, repeatedly stabbed by a Griever in the darkness of the night, choking on his own cries and begging a machine to let him live. 

 

Newt would never forgive himself if that happened: he made a Runner out of Thomas, going against people he knew for years, just because he decided to trust the new Greenie, to put his faith in him and send him into the Maze – even thought he hated that place. 

 

Then he was running again and Newt was watching him, smiling with fondness in his eyes, before he launched himself from the wall. 

 

***

 

Thomas woke up with a start and breathed in and out for a couple of minutes, taking in his rooms like it was the first time he was seeing it. 

 

Dreams like that – or nightmares, he could never decide – always left him in a hazy state; fortunately, he was alone – Newt must have gotten up at least half an hour before because his side of the bed was already cold. 

 

Not quite knowing what to do, Thomas decided to get up too; he took a quick stop at the bathroom and then headed to the kitchen, where he expected to find the blond guy. 

 

The closer he got to the kitchen, the stronger he heard voices coming from the room. He approached quietly, his footsteps like ones of a ghost, and learned, with a quick look, that they were of Newt and Scott. Lydia was there too, but she was listening to them silently, carefully analyzing the situation. 

 

“ -never meant to hurt him.” Newt was saying, when Thomas tuned in, staying well hidden behind the wall. 

 

“Yeah, you did a great job.” Lydia muttered under her breath; she was frowning and had her arms crossed on her chest, clearly bothered by the blond whom was receiving her deadly glare. And Thomas knew very well how uncomfortable it was being the receiving end of that look. 

 

Not that Newt seemed intimidated. “ I’m aware, thank you very much.” And he could point out the annoyance in his voice. The blond massaged his eyelids with his fingers and then sighted, letting out his frustration. “Look...I know I’ve been a jerk, alright? I regret a bloody lot of things and this is one of them.”

 

Because of their skeptical expressions, Newt kept talking. “Thomas may have a life here, but he is _all_ I remember, _all I have._ Still, I’m not with him ‘cause of that: regardless of what he says, he is a _leader_. And I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him, so it’s not like leaving him was an easy decision. It was stupid and rushed, I was angry and I acted on impulse.” He dampened his lips with his tongue. “But it’s Thomas. And _I’d follow him anywhere.”_

 

Thomas clearly felt his heart stutter into his rib cage and then picking up a much speedier rhythm, beating like crazy while he repeated Newt’s words again and again to himself, like a mantra. 

 

And it hit him, right there, in that precise moment. Lydia was right, he was totally and hopelessly  _ in love with Newt. _ So much that he asked himself how he could have been ignoring his feelings for so long, keeping them bottled up for the safety of their friendship. Besides, it wasn’t like they had the time for a relationship while they were literally running for their lives. Still, Thomas felt like he had always had that kind of affection towards the blond, even unconsciously; that’s why he was so broken by his death, by the fact he himself was the one who caused it. 

 

Newt was not only his best friend, he was _more._ Thomas wanted him to be _so much more_ and wanted to be it for him in return. 

 

Scott caught his eyes and a look was enough for the brunet to understand the werewolf acknowledged his presence along with his little emotional crisis and that he was giving him the opportunity to go back to his room without being noticed. 

 

Thomas nodded and silently thanked him, walking away with his heart in his throat. 

 

***

 

Thomas almost had a heart attack when half an hour later or so he pretended to woke up and found out Newt was wearing his clothes, again. 

Both the sweatpants and the t-shirt slung loose on his thin frame, but there must be something, because the brunet felt like watching him in his baggy clothes for the rest of his life. It would be enough for him to be utterly content. 

 

Also, Thomas realized he was not able to look at him in the eyes without blushing like an idiot. His feelings easily came back to the surface leaving him an embarrassed mess; it was like there was a lighted sign on his head flashing what was thinking. 

 

He barely said _‘good morning’_ to him, stuttering like an idiot on his own words, under the scrutiny of Scott and Lydia.  
Thomas himself could not understand his weird behavior: it was only Newt, there was no reason to be nervous like this, he could avoid the fact he was in love with him – because he could not even pretend for it to be a meaningless crush, after all they went through – until his feelings would fade into nothing. 

 

Yeah, he could do that. 

 

Oh for fuck’s sake, they _slept together,_ legs tangled and arms draped around the other like they were one. And, on top of that, Thomas’ subconscious thought it would be a good idea to have a sort of wet dreams about his best friend – all that while he was sleeping right beside him, the night before he realized he loved him for a while now. 

 

Fucking fantastic. 

 

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his lower back and nearly leaped across the room because of the unexpected gesture. Newt looked at him funnily. 

 

“Tommy, are you alright?”

 

“Ye-yeah.” The brunet muttered. 

 

“Are you sure? ‘Cause ya’ve been staring at that bloody coffeepot for a while.” The Brit retorted, all that without removing his shucking hand from Thomas’ body. 

 

He felt like he was going on fire just from that insignificant touch. 

 

“Yes, one-hundred percent sure!” And he walked away from him, covering up his true intentions grabbing a mug and adjusting himself a cup of coffee. 

 

But Newt was relentless, apparently. He studied Thomas with wrinkled eyebrows for a minute or two. “Yeah? You seem a little flushed, are you sure you’re not catching a fever?” 

 

He swore he could almost hear Scott and Lydia’s laughter, together with the universe in its entirety, making fun of him and of his crap. 

 

When the blond, frowning for the answer he never got, took a step forward to get closer, Thomas found himself jolting back from him. 

 

Newt seemed to be taken aback; at least, he decided to stand right where he was, watching him with wide eyes for a second and then recomposing, while clearing his throat. He lowered his gaze and murmured a weak “Okay”, before turning around and leaving for the bathroom. 

Thomas sighted and shrugged his shoulder at the sight of his friends shaking their head at him, clearly frustrated with him. 

 

He was _so_ fucked. 

 

***

 

“I am not dragging him into this mess.” And he did his best to make that statement seem final.

 

“It’s the best solution!” Derek insisted for the umpteenth time. 

 

“It’s not!” Thomas retorted with an authority he rarely showed. 

 

In short, the pack thought it was a good idea to open the door of the supernatural world to Newt, since the blond had made it clear he wanted to help them to catch Faraday and free all those people he was holding captive. 

 

The girls were out with the blond who was going to buy some clothes – he could not live in Thomas’ ones forever, it did not matter how much he would like that – and offered to help him doing the shopping. So the rest of the pack thought it was the right moment to talk about the issue with Thomas.

 

Thomas did not agree with them. He did not want to put him in danger, not after he almost died. Not after the years in the Maze and the Scorch and the Last City. That dark secret was not what Newt needed, what Newt desired. 

 

Nor what he _deserved._

 

He was so pure and full of life, even after the hell they went through, even after the death that flooded his veins, that even the mere thought of destroying the possibility of a life equally pure and ideal for him made Thomas bleed on the inside. 

 

“Stiles, it’s you’re life. He deserves to know.” Scott patiently explained to him from his place on the couch. 

 

Thomas barely refrained himself from screaming for the frustration. “You said well. It’s Stiles’ life. Not Thomas’.” He added with as much coldness ad he could muster. 

 

Scott seemed taken aback by his response, maybe a little hurt too. But Derek was not. 

 

“Stop it.” The were-wolf spelled and he was so much different from the guy Thomas remembered smiling to him into his bed. “You are Stiles. Stiles and Thomas are the same fucking person, you’re just too full of crap to realize that.” 

 

Those words hit him deep inside; he was perfectly aware he was Stiles Stilinski, as well as he was aware he was changed. Like it or not, Stiles and Thomas were two very different people. That did not mean they had not got things in common, as regarded for the character. 

 

Stiles and Thomas were as much different as they could possibly be, being united to the very core, _two sides of the same coin._

 

Still, hearing it was something else. It was strong and hard to take in, like a punch in the stomach or something similar, it left a bitter taste in his mouth and an uncomfortable feeling on. 

 

“I just don’t want to put him in danger.” He said slowly, like he was confessing them a long kept secret. “I don’t want Newt to know.”

 

“To know _what?”_

 

 _Newt_ was right there at the door. 

  
***

 

"So, let me get this straight..." Newt was sitting on the table in front of the couch where all of them sat. "...you're werewolves, you're a banshee, you're a were-coyote and you're a...what? _A fox?"_

  
"A Kitsune." Kira replied upset. "Why is everyone confused about who I am?!"

  
The British huffed a laugh. "Because I've never bloody heard of it since now."

  
"So what?" She muttered . "Have you ever heard of were-coyotes?"

  
"Well, no. But…"

  
"Okay, okay..." Scott intervened. "You're not surprised, why are you not surprised?" 

  
Newt folded his arms and appeared to be thinking about it for a little while. "I've seen a lot of strange things in my life – from what I remember, at least. Besides, a shuckin’ weirdo kidnapped me and locked me in some kind of morgue in the middle of nowhere. And you found me. That doesn't happen on daily basis." 

  
They all seemed satisfied by his answer and appeared to be thinking about his words, except for Thomas who was clearly still frowning. 

  
"So..." The blonde broke in again. "...what are you, Tommy? A vampire?" He mimicked a vampire that is about to sink his teeth into someone else's neck. 

  
The brunet watched the scene amused and tilted his head to the side. "A vampire?"

  
"Yep." The blonde shrugged his shoulders. "Well...you do not sparkle under the sun, which is a pity, really, but-"

  
"You really liked that Twilight-thing, didn't you?" He may not sparkle under the sun, but Newt's eyes will always remain a mystery to him: how could a color so dark, shine bright so much? 

  
"Oh, shut up!" He waved a hand dismissively, chuckling. "You're upset because I've just figured how can you run so fast out." 

  
Thomas didn't know what was his secret, but he felt the tension that was hardening his muscles leaving his body. He snickered and crossed his arms over his chest. "There's no secret. I'm a natural."

  
Newt arched an eyebrow. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Tommy." He shot him a smile and then shifted his attention on Scott. "So...what is Faraday?" 

  
"A werewolf." Derek interrupted and Thomas swore that Newt was barely holding himself from rolling his eyes. "Werewolves need a pack. Being alone means being vulnerable, weak. And it's not just hierarchy, nor just a matter of power. _Pack is family._ It is to protect each other no matter the cost. Even if the cost is your own life.” He explained with a stern look. 

 

“But I don’t think Faraday is building a pack.” The blond offered, with a fierce expression on his face. “I think he is recruiting soldiers. For an _army.”_

 

“An army?” Malia echoed. 

 

“Why?” Lydia asked, anticipating Thomas. 

 

“That’s what we have to find out.”

 

And the brunet was not able to not blush when Newt winked at him, with a mischievous grin on his lips. 

 

***

 

It was two in the morning and Thomas was still sitting at his desk, eyes skimming through the pages of the bestiary, in hope to find a reason for which Faraday could be doing what he was doing. 

 

He could not understand, something was escaping his attention, he was sure of it. He felt like there was a piece missing, an important piece without which the puzzle did not have a bugging sense. 

 

Why was he building an army? And why did he need Newt?

What was that targeted him as a suited soldier for the werewolf?

 

“Tommy?” He jolted in his chair, scared by the sudden voice in the darkness of his room. “Are ya still awake?” 

 

“Yeah.”

 

He felt his light footsteps approaching him, until they stopped. Newt was right beside him and, when Thomas lifted his gaze from the laptop, he had to squint his eyes a couple of times before he could focus on him. 

 

Thomas noticed his sleepy eyes and his blond locks sticking in every kind of directions, all along with the baggy t-shirt he got used to wear in the night. 

 

They had not slept together since the day Newt came back; Thomas was too embarrassed to suggest the idea and the blond did not seem to mind staying in the room across his. 

 

“Come to sleep.” The blonde said and reached out to caress his shoulder. 

 

The fact was that Thomas was really trying to refrain himself from being too clingy or obvious, hiding his true feelings behind a mask very well designed. It was hard most of the times, specially because Newt behaved normally with him, being touchy-feely and incredibly considerate of his spaces at the same time. 

 

But his touches felt amazing and Thomas was only human. Especially at two in the morning, when he did not have the energy to deny the pleasure of his closeness.

 

So he nodded and got up, finding himself a lot closer to Newt that he intended to be. And, when he tried to make some distance between them, the blond blocked him by grabbing his arm and locking their eyes. 

 

“ _With me.”_

 

Thomas nearly did not understand what he was referring to. Mostly because Newt was so close and their breath were mingling together; his skin was cool against his and his eyes held something different: sharp at the edges and impatient, something raw and intimate in a way. 

 

But nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of Newt’s soft _lips_ colliding with his.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys!  
> I know I haven't continued my other work yet, but I felt so inspired by this idea that I couldn't just ignore it.  
> Plus it will be quite short, three or four chapter, I think.  
> Just remember that English is not my native language, so forgive my mistakes, I will correct them if you tell me what they are in the comments.  
> Anyway, thank you for reading this!


End file.
